finished up at right or left tackle. But he couldn't help thinking that
were he not there his absence would go unremarked. Even on the to him
memorable occasion when he broke through the second's line on a fumble
and, seizing the ball, romped almost unchallenged over the last four
white lines for a touchdown the incident went apparently unnoticed. One
or two of his team-mates patted him approvingly on the back, but that
was all. Clint was beginning to have moments of discouragement.

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