“Well, I guess Hillsport’s too good a sport to make a howl,” replied Willard. “Cal’s clothes are simply covered with paint, Bob says. And he doesn’t dare wear them for fear faculty might notice and get a line on what happened. He’s going to smuggle them over to the tailor’s and have ’em cleaned.” “Well, he would have a hand in it,” said Martin complacently. “You didn’t see me begging to be allowed to desecrate the walls of the dear old town, did you? I knew better. Paint always spatters, especially when you try to put it on bricks. I could have told Cal that, but he’s so blamed knowing that he wouldn’t have paid any attention to me.” Martin sneezed again and shook his head. “It was coming over in that old trolley that gave me this cold. I guess I got worse than a spoiled suit out of the adventure. If I don’t manage to break this up tonight I’ll be out of football for days! I know these colds of mine.” “I thought you said it was hay-fever,” remarked Willard innocently. Martin growled. “It’s more than a month too late for hay-fever, I guess.” He seized his handkerchief, opened his mouth and twitched his nose. Nothing happened, however, and he relapsed again, with a dismal shake of his head. “It’s getting worse all the time,” he muttered. “Is there a window open anywhere?” “No, but I’ll open one,” answered Willard obligingly. “Don’t be a silly ass,” requested the other. “If you had this grippe you wouldn’t be so plaguey comic!” “It’s growing fast,” laughed Willard. “An hour ago it was just hay-fever. Then it was a cold. Now it’s grippe. Better see a doctor, Mart, before pneumonia sets in!” “Oh, shut up! What time is it?” “Almost time for supper. What shall I bring you? Do you care for milk-toast?” “I do not! And I’ll look after my own supper. I guess maybe some food will do me good. If it turned out to be influenza I’d be all the better for having lots of strength. It’s weakened constitutions that cause so many fatalities. A fellow wants power of resistance, I guess.” “Well, I don’t know about that, but a clean handkerchief wouldn’t hurt!” Monday introduced real November weather. The sky was overcast when Willard piled out of bed in the morning, and a cold breeze was blowing from the east. Radiators were sizzling and the bath-robed, gossiping groups were noticeably absent from the corridor when he set forth for the lavatory. Winter was in the air, and the coffee at breakfast never tasted so good.