Number 28 was dark when Kendall reached it. Gerald was not there, and he was very glad. He didn’t light the lights, but crossed to the window-seat, after he had taken off his coat and cap, and threw himself down among the cushions to think it all over again. Thinking, however, made it no better. It seemed to him that he was disgraced; that even his usefulness to the school was over. He hated to think of the morrow when he would have to face the fellows and read the verdict in their faces. He could imagine the whispers as he went by. “That’s the failure that lost the Broadwood game for us!” Of course, there would be some who wouldn’t let it make any difference. They’d be disappointed in him, but they’d try not to let him see, and they’d be loyal still――Gerald, for instance, and Harry and, yes, probably The Duke. And perhaps one or two others. And maybe after a while he would get over it. Perhaps by the time the Winter term began it would be half forgotten and he could hold up his head again. Once it occurred to him that had Fales kicked the goal after the touchdown they would still have won a victory. But he was charitable toward Fales. Fales had been worn out, almost ready to collapse, and it was no wonder he had missed. Besides, Fales was not supposed to excel at goal-kicking. With Kendall it was different. He was first of all a kicker, he had been given his place on the team because they believed he could be depended on to score from the field. And he had failed at the one most important moment of the season! Kendall groaned and turned his head as though to get away from his thoughts. The world outside the windows got blacker and blacker. He knew that in the next building they were gathering for the banquet and the election. But he had no intention of going. He didn’t want to face them yet, while as for eating, he didn’t care if he never saw food again! Now and then a voice or a strain of whistling or a bar of song came up to him as fellows passed under the window. Once there was a long burst of cheering from commons. One of the Old Boys, perhaps a former football hero, had entered the dining-hall probably. Well, they’d never cheer him that way; never, unless――yes, there was another year coming, after all. Perhaps they’d give him a chance to retrieve, to make up then! For a moment he felt better. But then the thought that if he failed to win his scholarship this year he wouldn’t be likely to get back again sent his spirits down once more. And so for another hour he lay there in self-abasement and self-accusation and got a little tearful at times and felt pretty miserable. And finally, tired out physically and mentally, he fell asleep and only awoke when someone thumped on the door and called his name loudly. He sat up, with a wince as his injured arm was jolted, and rubbed his eyes.