There was an enthusiastic mass meeting that evening, and while on the gymnasium floor little was to be heard save the sharp barks of the quarter-backs, the shuffling of rubber soles, and the patient, measured voices of the coaches, outside, cheers and songs filled the air. Barry did his best to avoid Clyde and succeeded, just as he had done all day. He was finding it hard to define his sentiments toward Clyde. There were moments when he was very angry, moments when he felt only sorry, moments when the old half-worshipful admiration returned powerfully. Even when most bitter he hoped that Clyde had understood the meaning of that note. Once he wondered if by any possibility Waterman had an inkling of what had transpired, for twice he caught Rusty viewing him with a broodingly malevolent gaze. Peaches had attended the mass meeting, and so Barry, when he reached home, was thrown on his own society. He tried study, but could make no headway; tried a magazine, and soon cast it aside. He was thoroughly tired, and at the same time oddly restless. Even after Peaches had returned, informative of the celebration, the restlessness continued. Barry listened without hearing, his thoughts racing hither and thither. He hadn’t punted well that afternoon, he told himself. Suppose that on Saturday he got into the game with Hoskins and fell down on his job! A chill, pricking sensation played along his spine. “――and that,” concluded Peaches, “is how the pole-cat came to have white stripes.” “Wh-what?” asked Barry, startled. Peaches laughed. “Well, you weren’t hearing a word I said, so I thought I’d try a jolt. What’s the worst symptom? Do you see black specks floating before your eyes? Does the mind suddenly go blank? So far as you know, were any of your ancestors insane? Do you experience a strange sinking sensation when falling from a roof?” “Shut up,” said Barry, grinning faintly. “I―― Gee! I do feel sort of――of queer! Kind of like I felt just before I had the grippe. I ache in lots of places, and I think my head’s hot, and――” “Your appetite’s on the blink.” “Yes, how did you know? I hardly ate any supper. And I’m sort of nervous-like, if you know what I mean.” “I know exactly,” replied Peaches, solemnly. “And I know your malady. You’ve got ‘Just-before-the-battle, Mother.’ It’s very common at this time of year among football artists.” “You mean I’m――I’m scared?” began Barry, indignantly. “I do not. I mean you’re jumpy. And I prescribe sleep, and lots of it, Barry. Toddle off and hit the old hay. And forget all about the game, Ace. All the thinking you can do won’t make you play one bit better to-morrow.” “Well, but do you think it’s just that? Did you ever feel that way? Sort of――sort of――” “More than once――hardened and blasé as I am! To bed with you. Sleep, sleep deep and refreshing is the answer. Go to it!”