Barry awoke the next morning in a rather depressed mood, for which the weather was not wholly to blame. Outside the window the rain was pouring in torrents. The brick path to the gate was plastered with drowned leaves, and in the narrow beds at each side the bare stalks of the salvias arose from a tangle of withered nasturtium vines like soldiers tottering in a last stand against the enemy. The little pits from which Mrs. Lyle had lifted her geraniums had become muddy pools against the surface of which the big drops splashed ceaselessly. The gutters ran like mountain brooks, and, across the road, a spout at one corner of the Anderson house poured a veritable Niagara upon the sodden lawn below. In the dim gray light the falling water looked like liquid silver. Not a cheerful beginning for a new week, Barry reflected as he donned a crackling slicker. A minute or two later, as from the shelter of the porch he and Peaches viewed the drenched world, preparatory to the dash to chapel, Peaches murmured: “Now I know exactly how the dove felt when he left the ark!” There was no outdoor practice for the football players that afternoon; only an hour of what they called “bean-drill” in the half gloom of the gymnasium. The chalk lines and emblems that Major Loring scrawled on the blackboard were no more than gray under the rain-pelted skylights. Barry was relieved, though not surprised, when Clyde nodded to him. There wasn’t much warmth in that greeting, but, rightly or wrongly, Barry detected a hint of apology in the brief glance that accompanied it. He felt a little more cheerful after that, and would have spoken to Clyde had the chance offered. But it didn’t. He overtook Zo on the way back to the house, Zo swinging his violin-case and whistling a football song gayly as he splashed through the rain and the puddles. Recalling the recent attentions of Rusty Waterman to the younger boy, Barry asked: “How are you and Waterman getting on, Zo? Has he been bothering you lately?” “No, I don’t think he’s even noticed me since that time he tried to get my violin.” “Hardly polite, I’d say, but perhaps you don’t mind.” Zo smiled his shy smile and shook his head. “I’m perfectly satisfied,” he answered. It was still raining Tuesday morning, but by noon it had stopped and at half-past three the football squad was assembled on a soggy field. There was no scrimmage that day. In fact, the session was cut almost in half. Barry gained a lot of experience in the handling of a wet pigskin and marveled at how heavy and erratic it could be when well saturated. Passing Hal Stearns in pursuit of an escaped ball, Barry chose not to see him, but Hal refused to be invisible.