was held that evening and was
followed by a very riotous parade during which much red-fire was set
off. The procession invaded the village and brought the inhabitants to
their doors in alarm. It paused at Coach Robey's boarding place and
cheered and demanded a speech. Coach Robey, however, was not at home.
Neither was Mr. Detweiler, to whose abode the fellows next made their
way. But they didn't care much. They greatly preferred hearing
themselves to listening to anything the coaches might have to say.
Finally they returned to Main Hall, indulged in one final burst of
tumult and disbanded. Clint, hearkening from his room, where, quite
alone, he was supposed to be diligently pursuing his studies, had
another and worse attack of nerves!

There was signal practice Thursday for a short time in the afternoon,
and in the evening a blackboard talk in the gymnasium. After that Clint
returned to Torrence and made believe study until he could crawl into
bed. Amy did what he could to take his mind from football, but his
efforts were not very successful. Just when he thought he had Clint
thoroughly interested in his conversation Clint would give a sudden
start and blurt out: "I'll never remember the signals, Amy! I know I
won't!" or "Gee, I wish it was over!"

Those were trying times in Number 14.

CHAPTER XXIV

IN THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY

And then, suddenly, it was Saturday morning!

Clint, rousing from disturbed, uneasy slumber, stared at a patch of
sunlight shimmering on the white ceiling and tried for just that moment
that lies between sleep and consciousness to account for the fluttering
condition of his nerves, the sense of impending doom that lay like a
dark shadow at the back of his brain. Then full recollection came, his
heart turned completely over twice, raced like a propeller out of water
and sank dejectedly to somewhere near the pit of his stomach. After that
he was very, very wide awake.

He turned and looked enviously at Amy, who, one bare arm over his
touselled head, slept on untroubledly. A door banged in the corridor,
the sound of rushing water came from the bathroom at the end, someone
across the way began to sing "Tipperary" joyously, and through the open
window came the shrill voice of an early First Former:

"Hi, Terry! Terry Brainard! Oh, _Ter_-ry!"

Clint would have liked to have buried his head in the pillow and gone
back to sleep and slept until--well, say five o'clock that afternoon.
For by fi