“Thanks, Syd; but don’t let that keep you awake.  Good-night!”

The room-mates chatted in a desultory way for half an hour longer and then prepared for bed.  Paul was somewhat nervous and excited, and displayed a tendency to stop short in the middle of removing a stocking to gaze blankly before him for whole minutes at a time.  Once he stood so long on one leg with his trousers half off that Neil feared he had gone to sleep, and so brought him back to a recollection of the business in hand by shying a boot at him.

As for Neil, he was untroubled by nervousness.  He believed Erskine was going to win.  For the rest, the eve of battle held no exciting thoughts for him.  He could neither win the game nor lose it; he was merely a spectator, like thousands of others; only he would see the contest from the players’ bench instead of the big new stand that half encircled the field.

But despite the feeling of aloofness that possessed and oppressed him, sleep did not come readily.  For a long time he heard Paul stirring about restlessly across the little bedroom and the occasional cheers of some party of patriotic students returning to their rooms across the common.  His brain refused to stop its labors; and, in fact, kept busily at them long after he had fallen asleep.  He dreamed continually, a ceaseless stream of weird, unpleasant visions causing him to turn and toss all through the night and leaving him when dawn came weary and unrefreshed.

Out of doors the early sun was brushing away the white frost.  The sky was almost devoid of clouds, and the naked branches of the elms reached upward unswayed by any breeze.  It was an ideal day, that 23d of November, bright, clear, and keen.  Nature could not have been kinder to the warriors who, in a few short hours, were to meet upon the yellowing turf, nor to the thousands who were to assemble and cheer them on to victory—­or defeat.

CHAPTER XX

COWAN BECOMES INDIGNANT

Breakfast at the training-table that morning was a strange meal, to which the fellows loitered in at whatever hour best pleased them.  Many showed signs of restless slumber, and the trainer was as watchful as an old hen with a brood of chickens.  For some there were Saturday morning recitations; those who were free were sent out to the field at ten o’clock and were put through a twenty-minute signal practise.  Among these were Neil and Paul.  A trot four times around the gridiron ended the morning’s work, and they were dismissed with orders to report at twelve o’clock for lunch.

Neil, Paul, and Foster walked back together, and it was the last that suggested going down to the depot to see the arrival of the Robinson players.  So they turned down Poplar Street to Main and made their way along in front of the row of stores there.  The village already showed symptoms of excitement.  The windows were dressed in royal purple, with here and there a touch of the brown of Robinson, and the sidewalk already held many visitors, while others were invading the college grounds across the street.  Farther on the trio passed the bicycle repair-shop.  In front of the door, astride an empty box, sat the proprietor, sunning himself and keeping a careful watch on the village happenings.  With a laugh Neil left his companions and ran across the street.