"Can't, eh? Well, I can!" Don smile wanly. "Thought you were telling me not to, Tim." Tim muttered. There was silence for a minute in the twilit room. Then Tim switched on the lights and rolled up his sleeves preparatory to washing. "The whole thing's perfectly rotten," he growled, "but we'll just have to make the best of it. Ten years from now----" "Yes, but it isn't ten years from now that troubles me," interrupted Don thoughtfully. "It--it's right this minute. And tomorrow and the next day. And the day after that. I've a good mind to----" "To what?" demanded Tim from behind his sponge. "Nothing. I was just--thinking." "Well, stop it, then. You weren't intended to think. You always do something silly when you get to thinking. Wash up and come on to supper." "I'm not going over tonight," answered Don. "I'm not hungry. And, anyway, I don't feel quite like facing it yet." "Now, look here," began Tim severely, "if you're going to take it like that----" "I'm not, I guess. Only I'd rather not go to supper tonight. I am through at the training-table and I funk going back to the other table just now. Besides, I'm not the least bit hungry. You run along." Tim observed him frowningly. "Well, all right. Only if it was me I'd take the bull by the horns and see it through. Fellows will talk more if you let them see that you give a hang." "They'll talk enough anyway, I dare say. A little more won't matter." "I just hope Holt gets gay again," said Tim venomously, shying the towel in the general direction of the rack and missing it by a foot. "Want me to bring something over to you?" "No, thanks. I don't want a thing." "We-ell, I guess I'll beat it then." Tim loitered uncertainly at the door. "I say, Donald, old scout, buck up, eh?" "Oh, yes, I'll be all right, Timmy. Don't you worry about me. And--and thanks, you know, for--for calling Holt down." "Oh, that!" Tim chuckled. "Holt wasn't the only one I called down either." Then, realising that he had not helped the situation any by the remark, he tried to squirm out of it. "Of course, Holt was _the_ one, you know. The others didn't really _say_ anything, or--or mean anything----" Don laughed. "That'll do, Tim. Beat it!" And Tim, red-faced and confused, "beat it." For the next five minutes doors in the corridor opened and shut and footfalls sounded as the fellows hurried off to Wendell. But I doubt if Don heard the sounds, for he was sunk very low in the chair and his eyes were fixed intently on space. Presently he drew in his legs, sat up and pulled his watch from his pocket. A moment of speculation followed. Then he jumped from the chair as one whose mind is at last made up and went to his closet. From the recesses he dragged forth his bag and laid it open on his bed. From the closet hooks he took down a few garments and tossed them beside the bag and then crossed to his dresser and pulled open the drawers. Don had decided to accept Coach Robey's title. He was going to quit!