It rained on Sunday; one of those desultory, half-hearted rains that seem always on the point of letting up, and don’t; and Jim’s spirits became as gloomy as the view from the windows of Number 15. He told himself that it would have been a lot better if he had stuck to the decision he had made last fall and kept firmly away from football. The first rift in the clouds didn’t appear until Monday morning. Then the glint of sunshine that peered through wasn’t very bright. When Jim looked in the letter-box on his way to breakfast he found a letter postmarked at Norwalk. It was a brief and frequently misspelled missive from Webb Todd from which fell a soiled and flabby two-dollar bill. Webb reported that he was working, though the wages weren’t much--Jim thought four dollars and a half a day quite fabulous!--and that he was well and hoped this would find Jimmy the same, and he was sending two dollars. There was more, but this was the gist of it. It was enough to cheer Jim up a little, for he had a genuine affection for Webb, and life didn’t look quite so dark afterwards. Practice was light that Monday afternoon and there was no visit from the second. The only hostilities that developed were between the first team and the substitutes, and they lasted only ten minutes and were used by the coaches to illustrate the mistakes made on Saturday. On the bench it was confidentially noised that Gus and the others who had gone over to Lakeville Saturday had returned primed with all sorts of invaluable information, and strong in the belief that Kenly had something big up her sleeve that wouldn’t slip into sight before the big game. Kenly, it seemed, had toyed with her opponent, using two full teams in the process of running up a 41 to 0 score, and had showed nothing she didn’t want to. What information the Alton scouts had brought back was mainly concerned with the individual performances of the Kenly players, although certain other features had not escaped their eyes. The general verdict to-day was to the effect that “Kenly has a strong team, all right, but we can lick ’em!” The usual evening session in the gymnasium came off as usual at seven-thirty, and Coach Cade, chalk in hand, drew diagrams on the blackboard and explained them, after which the plays were walked off. Some of the plays were fairly complicated, and to-night the class seemed duller than usual. Perhaps for that reason Mr. Cade shortened the session. Having, however, released them, he called them back in the next breath. “Just a minute, fellows!” The exodus halted short of the doors. Mr. Cade was holding a sheet of paper up. “Does this belong to any one here?” he asked. Some of the nearer fellows retraced their steps for a closer view, while a voice from further away asked: “What is it, Mr. Cade?” “Well, it’s a sheet of paper,” was the answer. “It was found somewhere, in one of the dormitories, I think, and handed to me. It has a football play on one side, done in pencil, and--”