“I’ll go,” said Martin promptly. “He can’t any more than turn us down. Gee, listen to that cheer! They’re certainly humping themselves over there tonight!” “We’ll all go,” said Bob. “I suppose it’s too late tonight. Let’s do it right after breakfast. I don’t see why he shouldn’t, fellows.” “Nor I,” growled Cal, “but he won’t!” Long after midnight had rung out Willard called cautiously across the darkness: “Mart, you awake?” “Yes, I can’t seem to get to sleep.” “Same here,” sighed Willard. He thumped his pillow and dug his head into it again. “Gee, you’d think I was going to play tomorrow from the way I don’t get sleepy!” “Last year,” said Mart, making the bed squeak as he tossed himself into a new position, “I was asleep before eleven. Let’s light up and read awhile, Brand.” “Let’s try it again for awhile first,” was the answer. “Maybe if we stop thinking about the game we’ll make it.” “Yes, but how are you going to stop thinking of it?” sighed Martin. “Well--” Silence fell. The half-hour struck. Presently a gentle snore came from the left-hand bed, joined a few minutes later by a second. CHAPTER XXIV ALTON CELEBRATES Cloud and sun were struggling for supremacy the next morning when Willard looked out the window. The tips of the trees were swaying briskly under a southwest breeze, but it was evident that, whether fair or cloudy, the day was to be milder than yesterday. Already there was a wild hubbub from the corridor as boys raced for the lavatory, and football songs sounded bravely. Willard didn’t have much appetite at breakfast; nor, for that matter, did many of his table companions display any marvelous enthusiasm for food. They were far too excited. A holiday air prevailed and laughter was louder and conversation more incessant than usual. At intervals the broad windows across the crowded hall lighted up palely, making a promise that was never quite fulfilled. The four met in the corridor after breakfast and discussed their mission beside one of the radiators. “Who’s going to do the talking?” asked Calvin. “And what are we going to say?” “Bob,” answered Martin and Willard almost in unison. Bob shrugged. “I don’t mind. Anyway, there isn’t anything to say. All we can do is ask to be allowed to attend the game. I don’t know of any--any effective argument that we can put up, do you?” It seemed that no one did, and presently they started forth for Doctor McPherson’s residence, the Doctor seldom going across to Academy Hall before nine o’clock. They gave their names to the maid and stood in a cluster outside the library door while she disappeared in the direction of the dining-room. “Guess he hasn’t finished breakfast,” whispered Martin. “Maybe we oughtn’t to have come so early.” “He ought to be through it if he isn’t,” muttered Bob sternly. “Anyhow, we can wait.”