Sunday dawned cloudy and dismal, with occasional sprinkles of rain. Breakfast was a half-hour later, and when that was over there was nothing much to do but furbish up for church. But shining one’s shoes and brushing one’s Sunday suit doesn’t consume much time, no matter how thorough and deliberate one may be, and after Willard was ready there still remained the best of an hour. The steam heat had not yet been turned on and the dormitory was chill and unsympathetic. He tried to write a letter to the folks at home, but only got as far as: “Dear Father and Mother.” Martin’s usually placid humor was perceptibly rumpled this morning, and efforts to engage him in conversation resulted in grunts and growls. Willard was heartily glad when it came time to start off for church, even though he felt uncomfortable in a derby and detested carrying an umbrella.
Dinner was at one, a heavy repast topped off with ice cream and cake that left the diner feeling like an anaconda who had just swallowed a goat. Willard, who had failed to get placed at Joe’s table and was with an unusually uninteresting group at the far end of the hall, arose from the board wishing he had not accepted young Stanley’s offer of his ice cream. Or perhaps it was the cake that was to blame. In any case, he felt horribly full and sluggish, and when, at the door, Bob brightly suggested a nice long tramp over to Banning to see the new railway bridge that was under construction he shook his head and pleaded letters to write. Banning was three miles away, and Willard wasn’t sure he could even get back to his room before going to sleep!
“Well, if you change your mind, come on over to the room,” said Bob. “We won’t be starting for half an hour, I guess.”
Willard said he would, being quite certain that his mind was incapable of any change. When he reached Number 16, Martin, too, was disgustingly active. “Come on, Brand,” he cried. “We’re going over to see the new bridge at Banning. Get an old pair of shoes on.”
“I don’t want to see any bridges,” replied Willard morosely. “I—I saw one once.”
“What if you did, you chump! You never saw this one. Don’t be a piker. Look, it’s going to clear up!”
Willard gazed through the window with lackluster eyes and shook his head feebly. “I’ve got to write home,” he murmured, subsiding into a chair.
“You look more as if you were going to sleep,” said Martin in disgust. “All right, sonny, see you later.”
Martin went out, slamming the door behind him and whistling gayly down the corridor. Willard shook his head again. He had never noticed before how objectionably noisy Martin was! Several rooms away a graphophone was playing loudly and boys were singing. Everyone, reflected Willard, seemed to be unnaturally animated today. He guessed they hadn’t eaten two plates of ice cream! After a long time, during which he stared somnolently at his shoes, he pulled himself out of the chair with a groan and reseated himself at the table. Half an hour later he signed the fourth page of his letter “Your aff. son, Willard” and folded it quickly lest he yield to the temptation to read it over. He knew that if he did that he would never send it!
When it was ready for mailing he walked to the window and looked out. It really was clearing! Even as he looked, the sun broke through for a moment and shone weakly on the damp field and the running track beyond. He felt a good deal better now and he wished he had gone to Banning with the others. Well, he hadn’t, and rather than moon around in that chilly room he would slip on an old suit and take a walk. Possibly he would meet the crowd coming back later. He changed from his Sunday attire to an old pair of knickerbockers, a sweater, golf stockings, old shoes and a cap and set forth, proceeding first to the mail box in front of Academy Hall and getting rid of his letter. Stacey Ross hailed him from a third-story window of Lykes as he made his way past toward the athletic field, and he stopped and exchanged badinage for a moment, declining Stacey’s invitations, the first of which was to “Come on up,” and the second to “Go to the dickens!”