Oh, she’s sweet, light. . . sweet—like music and moon¬ He fell asleep, repeating “music and moonlight” over and over again—“music and moon¬ light. . . ”
The morning of the “big game” proved ideal, crisp and cold, crystal clear. Indian summer was near its close, but there was still something of its dreamy wonder in the air, and the hills still flamed with glorious autumn foliage. The purples, the mauves, the scarlets, the burnt oranges were a little dimmed, a little less brilliant—the leaves were rus¬ tling dryly now—but there was beauty in dying au¬ tumn, its splendor slowly fading, as there was in its first startling burst of color,.
Classes that Saturday morning were a farce, but they were held; the administration, which the boys damned heartily, insisted upon it. Some of the in¬ structors merely took the roll and dismissed their classes, feeling that honor had been satisfied; but others held their classes through the hour, lecturing the disgusted students on their lack of interest, warning them that examinations were n’t as far off as the millennium.
Hugh felt that he was lucky; he had only one class—it was with Ailing in Latin—and it had been promptly dismissed. “When the day comes,” said Ailing, “that Latin can compete with football, I ’ll —well, I ’ll probably get a living wage. You had
