“No practice to-day, I suppose,” he remarked, returning to the table. “Only indoors. What sort of a team does Mount Millard have generally?” “Fair to middling, I believe. Seems to me they’ve beaten us once or twice. I think they licked us in my freshman year. I forget, though. Maybe it was the year before, and I just heard talk of it. You playing Saturday?” “Guess so. I’ll probably get in for a while. Roice is going to Lakeville with three or four other fellows to see Kenly Hall play.” “I see.” Clem settled himself in a chair under the light and began to read over a theme that had been returned to him that morning, frowning over the red-penciled criticisms that adorned the margins. Surreptitiously Jim tore the top sheet off the pad, folded it and consigned it to a pocket for future reference. When supper time came Clem showed no disposition to leave, so Jim went to the lavatory first. There, finding it empty for the moment, he disposed of soap and towel and drew out the diagram and studied it for a moment under the light. He was still so occupied when footfalls beyond the swinging doors caused him to thrust the paper hurriedly from sight again. The arrival proved to be Clem, but Jim didn’t take the paper out again. He washed and went back to the room for his cap and was soon on his way to Lawrence Hall and supper. In other times he and Clem had always gone together, but now they carefully avoided doing that. Sometimes the avoidance resulted in quite embarrassing situations; as when, a night or so before, Clem had started off first only to stop in the lower corridor to talk to an acquaintance and Jim had come down just as Clem and the other chap were parting. Jim had had to retrace his steps to the mail-boxes and search for a letter he knew wasn’t there. At supper he asked a question of Jake Borden, the right end, who sat beside him. “How do they make up these plays they use, Jake?” Jim inquired. “What plays?” asked Jake. “Any of them. Like that end-around play the second sprung yesterday.” “Oh, that one’s as old as the hills,” replied Jake contemptuously, helping himself to a third piece of toast. “So old we weren’t expecting it. Going to use your butter, Slim?” Jim pushed it over. “Well, who do you suppose thought of it? And--and how?” “Search me! Some one’s always springing new ones. It isn’t hard to make ’em up, but only one in a dozen amount to anything. A play may look great on a blackboard and not amount to a row of pins when you try it out against another team.” “I suppose so. I guess there are lots of them, too.” “A couple of hundred, probably. Whose apricots are those, Pep?” “Mine. Want ’em?”