That afternoon the fog changed to a soft drizzle that puffed in from the Sound on a southwest breeze and cast a pall of gloom and moisture over the school. Luckily there was no outdoor practice scheduled, for the field was soft and slippery and just in condition to produce a crop of sprains and bruises. Instead, there was a solid two hours of signal drill and talk in the gymnasium. The plays selected for the morrow were drawn on the blackboard and explained again by the Coach, after which the players were “quizzed” on each and afterwards were made to go through them, first at a walk and then at a trot, until they went off smoothly. Toward the last the lights had to be turned on, and the players, their rubber soles patting the boards, moved back and forth, two squads of them, with their foreshortened shadows dodging and leaping about the floor with strange effect. The voices of Simms and Holmes, the first high and sharp and the latter like an angry growl, called the signals, the centers shot[201] back the balls, the poised players broke into seeming confusion, there was the sound of pattering shoes on the floor, of hurried breathing, and then quiet again as the teams reformed, quiet broken by the even voice of Coach Payson. “Cousins, you started too soon. Wait until quarter turns. Your duty is to make the play safe. If there had been a fumble you’d never have got the ball. Try that again, please. And, Burtis, keep your head straight. If you turn it you may give away the play. Remember that, everyone. Don’t indicate by a look or movement where the ball is going or where the attack is to be made. Same play, Simms.”
At the edge of the shadow cast by the running track a half-dozen substitutes watched and awaited their turns. With them were Davis, making interminable notes in his book, and Andy Ryan, the little red-headed trainer, his sharp eyes following the players’ every movement. Finally it was over, and the fellows trooped down the stairs to the showers, the edict “Ten o’clock bed, fellows!” ringing in their ears.
Meanwhile Gerald was leading a dozen or so scantily attired youths over the cross-country course, plugging up the slippery hillsides and splashing through puddles, with the rain soaking their running clothes and squish-squashing in[202] their spiked shoes, and all for the glory of Yardley. And, although no one knew it, far out on the golf links, a solitary figure in the rain-swept landscape, George Kirk was tramping doggedly along in the wake of a wee white ball. The golfing days were growing fewer and fewer and, although it would be a good six months before he could lead his warriors against Broadwood again, he must miss no chance to prepare for a victory. And this, too, was for the glory of Yardley.
By supper time the drizzle had turned to a driving rain that beat against the front windows of the halls and filled the walks with unexpected puddles into which you walked unseeingly. It was what The Duke, sprinting back from the library after supper—even The Duke had to look up a reference occasionally—termed to himself “a dark, dank, drooly nicht.” He reached the entrance to Clarke out of breath and somewhat damp, but his spirits were not affected. It took more than that to affect them. Even the fact that authority in the person of one Edmund Gaddis, instructor in English, familiarly known as “Old Tige,” had decreed that The Duke should hand in a theme before Saturday noon, and that Saturday noon was less than seventeen hours away, cast no spell of gloom over his gayety. When, having reached the head of the first flight, he[203] descried Adler coming along the corridor, he immediately stationed himself against the newel post, clapped a hand to an imaginary sword hilt and scowled silently at the approaching figure. Adler, sighting his foe at the same moment, placed a quick hand on his own weapon and, hugging the further wall, advanced cautiously, with an insolent expression. No word was spoken. Eyeing each other intently, haughtily, they met and passed. The weapons were not drawn. Adler, circling at a safe distance, reached the stairs and, with a last malevolent glare, which was met and returned, passed from sight. Whereupon The Duke dropped his hand from his sword hilt and proceeded upstairs, three steps at a time. Just why the two went through this procedure they did not know, but they always did, wherever and whenever they met. Doubtless it added spice to life.
Cotton was writing at the study table when The Duke flung open the door of Number 47. At sight of his roommate Cotton quickly turned the written sheet face downward and drew a blotter half over it, afterward pretending to trace figures on the blotter with his pen. The Duke observed him disgustedly.
“Oh, chuck the mystery, Cotton! I don’t want to see what you’re writing. Every time anyone[204] comes around you you hide something like a silly conspirator. Why the dickens don’t you write something you aren’t ashamed of, eh?”
“I’m not ashamed of anything I write,” replied Cotton with intense dignity. “But I don’t want fellows to read my letters, do I?”
“You do not! Nor does anyone want to read your old letters. I’ll bet a dollar and seven cents no one could read ’em!”
The Duke had seized a towel and was vigorou............