It drizzled all day, and toward evening grew colder. The gridiron, covered with a sprinkling of marsh hay, remained deserted. At four o’clock the team met in the gymnasium and had a half-hour’s drill on signals, and then again, at half-past eight, there was a blackboard talk. But the day went slowly to most of the fellows and the weather affected tight-strung nerves, and everyone from Coach Bonner down to the least important third-string substitute was heartily glad when bedtime came. The school held an impromptu celebration――if you can call it a celebration when the thing to be celebrated hasn’t occurred――on the campus and did a good deal of singing and cheering and shouting while it marched around the buildings. But the drizzle soon discouraged it and long before ten o’clock Grafton School was as quiet as the proverbial mouse. Hugh had a good deal of trouble getting to sleep that night. He could hear Bert’s hearty and regular snores from the opposite room and envied him. Probably, he reflected, Bert had a clear conscience, while his own――well, he didn’t quite know whether it was clear or not. He only knew that he had done something that morning which might or might not prove to have been for the best. Sometimes, he concluded, as he thumped his pillow into a new shape, life was most beastly complicated. When he awoke after a none too refreshing night it was still dull and foggy outside, although the drizzle had ceased. There was a light glaze of ice over everything and the limbs of the trees outside the windows crackled when a slight puff of wind blew the gray mist across the campus. It was a dispiriting scene, Hugh thought, but Bert, who came yawning in a moment later, appeared to find it quite to his liking. “Ugh! Put that window down! Say, this is a bully day for the game, isn’t it? Just snappy enough!” “The field will be wet, though, won’t it?” asked Hugh. “Not to mention. The sun will be out before noon, and that hay will keep it pretty dry, anyway. Had your bath――pardon me, tub?” “No. You go ahead if you like.” “All right, your ’Ighness, I’ll do that very thing. Say, what’s wrong with you? Got the pip or anything? You look like a last summer’s straw!” “Me? Oh, I’m all right, I fancy, thanks. I――didn’t sleep very well.” Bert chuckled and playfully shied a pillow at him. “Nerves, me dear boy, nerves! You’ll feel better after you’ve got some food――that is, chow, inside you. I’ll yell if there’s a tub not working.” Bert’s prediction was verified. Hugh did feel better after his breakfast. Possibly the discovery that he was not the only fellow at the training table that morning who resembled a last summer’s straw helped as much as the food. As has been said before, Hugh had a horror of being “different.”