Hike was willing to cut out the pie, though he had a sneaking fondness for it. He was willing—that is, nearly willing—to go to bed at eight-thirty. But when it came to having to “rest” all the time, he felt like going on a strike, by himself, and throwing bricks at Captain McDever and the coach. The less they let him plunge into hard practise, the less fit he felt. Tuesday, two days before the game, was a horrible day. He felt so depressed that he scarcely cheered up at a telegram from General Thorne, announcing that P. J. Jolls and his thugs had been sentenced to long terms in the Federal Penitentiary. On the Wednesday evening before the game, Hike finally decided he had “rested” so much that he simply wouldn’t be able to play. “You really might be better if you snook out and took a ride, or something,” Poodle mused, as they sulked, in their room. “Poodle, you’re a genius. No wonder the school mag. took both your poems! Sure—that’s what I need—and that’s what I’ll get! Jump into your puttees and riding-breeches, and come on!” “But Hike—” protested Poodle. Hike drove him to the closet, and began stripping off both their clothes, all at once, laughing and singing, “We stung ’em, see!” Though most of what the livery stable keeper called “the young gentlemen from the Academy” wanted nice, easy-going horses, these two demanded the two fierce, half-broken bronchos that the stableman called “Fiend” and “Demon.” By now, once they had thus broken the coach’s rules, Poodle was as interested as Hike, and he hummed blithely as they flung a leg over the rearing bronchos, and rode out into the rain. Rain? Rather! California was making up for her usual dry summers by laying in a supply of the wettest water in the clouds. It poured till they could scarcely see the street lamps, and the mud splashed over them at every plunging step the bronchos took. At first, Hike was a little uncomfortable, after his lazy week; but as they raced down the hill, with the wet wind full in his face, the mud spurting about him in the darkness, he stood in his stirrups and whooped, and kicked “Fiend” into a crazy lope about equal to an express train’s. His cheeks glowed, his legs felt strong enough for anything as his thighs gripped the horse’s sides. They took five miles, at a good pace. Then Hike regretfully drew up and shouted back to Poodle (who had been jarred almost to death): “Well, I suppose we can’t go much farther.” “Yes-s-s-s,” shivered Poodle, horribly aware that there was a large river down the back of his neck. “I think this is enough exercise. ’Course I’d like to take back all the mud there is on my pants, but I’m afraid I’d get smothered, and Bluggy owes me thirty cents and I want to live and make him pay it.” “Right O!” said Hike. “But just one more spurt,” and he set “Fiend” off at the lope again; swinging around a curve, leaning far out from the saddle and swinging his hat gayly, glad to feel the cold rain on his bare head.