The weather, which had been on the whole particularly obnoxious for a fortnight, changed during Thursday night, and when Friday dawned the world was drenched in a gray mist, the air was balmy and one rather expected to hear bluebirds cheeping or cawing or whatever it is that bluebirds do. Chill, cloudy days, cold, blustery days were no more for the while and Indian summer had returned from over the purple hills. By the time breakfast was over the haze had vanished under the warmth of an ardent sun and brick walks and stone walls were steaming gently. Groups of boys crowded the dormitory steps, windows were open, with curtains aflutter, and the campus grass seemed to have grown a full shade greener under its sere and yellow tips. Of course no one wanted to do any work. That’s the trouble with such days. A fellow just wants to stick his hands deep into his pockets and lean against something--if he can’t sit down--and think long and lazy thoughts, thoughts on any subject save study and recitations and English themes due at noon and letters postponed since Sunday. It’s an effort even to yawn! Fortunately practice was light that afternoon, for even the most ambitious were unable to move out of a walk unless driven to it by the sharp voice of authority. Footballs had a way of coming down yards distant from their expected landing places and of slipping out of nerveless fingers, and cleated football shoes had apparently added several pounds of weight since yesterday. There was no scrimmage, and after a signal drill of half an hour the squad was released. Most of the First Team repaired to the second gridiron after getting back into mufti and watched the Scrub play its one outside game of the season. Southport Second was the opponent. Bert, his feet over the back of the seat in front of him, basked in the warmth and took much pleasure in watching his recent opponents in practice pant and perspire as they charged over the gridiron. For once at least he was content to sit in idleness and watch others gain the glory. Beyond him, widely spaced since there was plenty of room on the stand to-day and the idea of contact with another was obnoxious in such weather, sat other members of the First, lazily, even somnolently. Occasional words of approval aimed at the Second seldom reached the field. You might have all the will in the world to shout loudly, yet what resulted was merely a sleepy murmur. Into Bert’s paradise of contentment crept the serpent. Well, he didn’t exactly creep, either; stumble would be a better word. And for a serpent he was undeniably rotund. Perhaps likening him to a boa constrictor after a hearty meal might go unchallenged, but the simile is inapt. And this particular serpent, even if he had had a hearty meal, was still eating as he flopped down to a seat beside Bert with a muttered: “_Saluer, mon brave!_” “’Lo, Tommy,” responded Bert weakly. “That’s rotten French.”