TIM didn't enjoy supper very much that evening. The game had left him pretty weary of body and mind, and on top of that was Don and his trouble, and try as he might he couldn't get them out of his thoughts. Mr. Robey was not at table; someone said he had gone to New York for over Sunday; and so Tim didn't have to make a pretence of eating more than he wanted. And he wanted very little. A slice of cold roast beef, rather too rare to please him, about an eighth of one of the inevitable baked potatoes, a few sips of milk and a corner of a slice of toast as hard as a shingle, and Tim was more than satisfied. Tonight he was not especially interested in the talk, which, as usual after a game, was all football, and didn't see any good reason for sitting there after he had finished and listening to it. All during his brief meal he was on the alert for any mention of Don's name, and more than once he glared, almost encouragingly, at Holt. But Holt had already learned his lesson and was doing very little talking, and none at all about Don. Nor was the absent player's name mentioned by anyone at that table, although what might be being said of him at the other Tim had no way of knowing. He stayed on a few minutes after he had finished, eyeing the apple-sauce and graham crackers coldly, and then asked Steve Edwards to excuse him. "Off his feed," remarked Carmine as Tim passed down the dining hall on his way out. "First time I ever saw old Tim have nerves." "It's Don Gilbert, probably," said Clint Thayer. "They're great pals. Tim's worried about him, I guess." "What do you make of it, Steve?" asked Crewe, helping himself to a third slice of meat. "What is there to make of it?" asked Steve carelessly. "The chap's all out of shape, I suppose. I don't know what his trouble is, but I guess he's a goner for this year." "It's awfully funny, isn't it?" asked Rollins. "Gilbert always struck me as an awfully plucky player." "Has anyone said he isn't?" inquired Clint quietly. "N-no, no, of course not!" Rollins flushed. "I didn't mean anything like that, Clint. Only I don't see----" "He hasn't been looking very fit lately," offered Harry Walton. "I noticed it two or three days ago. Too bad!" "Yes, you're feeling perfectly wretched about it, I guess," said big Thursby drily, causing a smile around the table. Walton shrugged and rewarded the speaker with one of his smiles that were always unfortunately like leers. "Oh, I can feel sorry for him," said Walton, "even if I do get his place. Gilbert gave me an awfully good fight for it." "Oh, was there a fight?" asked Thursby innocently. "I didn't notice any." Thursby got a real laugh this time and Harry Walton joined in to save his face, but with no very good grace.