he rooms
of the football players, who, of course, needed, on this night of all
nights, a sound and long sleep. In Lincoln Hall, at meal time, there had
been a hum of eager conversation: the Jefferson team had arrived in
Hamilton and had gone to comfortable quarters at Grey Stone Inn, three
miles from the school. They would remain at the inn until just before
the game, when they would come to the field in automobiles. Several of
the Ridgleyites who had been in the station at the time of the visitors'
arrival reported that the Jefferson players were "huskies" and that
Norris, the renowned full-back, was the biggest "of the lot." The main
body of Jefferson students would arrive by special train at noon on
Saturday.

Many a member of Ridgley School on this eve of the great struggle was
filled with a feeling of restlessness; it seemed that the minutes were
dragging with indescribable slowness, that the night would never pass
and that the hour would never come when the referee would blow his
whistle to start the contest upon which the Ridgley hopes and fears were
centered.

Among those restless spirits who longed for some way to speed the
minutes was Snubby Turner. He had gone down to the Hamilton Station and
had come away not at all reassured by the sight that had met his eyes.
The representatives of Jefferson School were a formidable looking lot,
and it increased Snubby's peace of mind not at all to have had a close
view of Norris' athletic form. He sensed a feeling of overflowing
confidence in these big sons of Jefferson, and he longed to talk to some
one who could dispel his doubts and drive away the insidious fears that
were gnawing at what he called his "Ridgley spirit." In these
circumstances he would have gone to Teeny-bits, or he might even have
imposed upon the hospitality of Neil Durant,--if he had not known that
loyalty to the school demanded that he should not bother any member of
the eleven. He finally sought consolation by going down to the basement
of Gannett Hall to pay a visit to old Jerry. He found the ancient
janitor's assistant leaning back in a rickety chair reading by the light
of an unshaded electric bulb. The old man put the volume down upon his
knee and looked at Snubby with eyes that seemed to be gazing on distant
scenes.

"What kind of book is that?" asked Snubby. "A novel?"

Old Jerry thrust his head forward slightly, as if seeing his visitor for
the first time, and said:

"There's _ijeers_