The most enthusiastic meeting of the Fall 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 five o’clock the Claflin game would be over with.  But even a five-minute cat-nap was denied him by restless nerves, and, after a moment or two, he put his legs out and sat up yawning, feeling strangely tired and listless.  His bath helped some, however, and later on he was surprised to find that as long as he kept his mind off the game he was able to do full justice to a chop, two soft-boiled eggs, three slices of toast, a dish of stewed apricots, a baked potato and three glasses of milk!  After that he felt better still!