But two days after the Miter Hill game an incident occurred which proved him wrong in thinking that no one knew or cared whether he reported for practice.  That morning’s Greek had gone unusually badly for Clint and Mr. Simkins had kept him after class and talked some plain talk to him.  When Clint’s final recitation of the day was over at three he was out-of-sorts and depressed.  He felt very little like playing football and still less like studying, but Mr. Simkins had as much as told him that unless a decided improvement was at once apparent some direful fate would be his, and the instructor had a convincing way of talking and Clint quite believed him.  Consequently, of two evils Clint chose the more necessary and dedicated that afternoon to the Iliad.  The dormitory was very quiet, for it was a fine, mild day and most of the fellows were out-of-doors, and concentration should have been easy.  But it wasn’t.  Clint couldn’t keep his mind on his book, try as he might.  Through the open window came sounds from the grid-irons and ball-field; shouts, the honking of Manager Black’s horn, the cries of the coaches and players, the crack of bat and ball where the Nine was holding Fall practice; even, now and then, the voices of the tennis players far down the field.  He tried closing the window, but that made the room hot and stuffy, and he opened it again.  Four o’clock sounded and he was still dawdling.  Then footsteps sounded on the stairs, the door of Number 13 opened and shut, and a minute or two later the wailing of Penny Durkin’s violin broke onto the silence of the deserted dormitory.  That ought to have ended Clint’s chances of study, it seemed, but, oddly enough, after he had listened for five minutes or so, his eyes sought the page in front of him and then—­well, then it was more than an hour later, the violin was silent and someone was knocking on his door!

Clint gazed with surprise on the pencilled notes adorning the margins of the pages, from them to the open lexicon, from that to the pencil in his hand.  He had absolutely done five pages!  And then the knock at the door was repeated and Clint stammered “Come in!” and Tracey Black entered.

The football manager was a slimly-built, nervous-mannered chap of eighteen and wore glasses through which he now regarded Clint accusingly.

“What’s wrong with you, Thayer?” he demanded bruskly.  “Sick?”

“Sick” repeated Clint vaguely.  “No, thanks, I’m all right.”

“Then why do you cut practice?” asked Black severely.  “Don’t you know—­” It was then that Black recalled Clint’s face and remembered having met him in Innes’s room a week before.  “Hello,” he said in a milder tone.  “I didn’t recognise you.  Er—­you see, Thayer, when you fellows don’t show up I have to find out what the reason is.  Maybe you didn’t know it, but it’s the customary thing to get permission to cut practice.”

“Oh!  No, I didn’t know it, Black,” replied Clint.  “I’m sorry.  I got in a mess with my Greek and thought I’d better stay away and take a fall out of it.  Besides, I didn’t think anyone would care if I didn’t report.”