When he awoke after a none too refreshing night it was still dull and foggy outside, although the drizzle had ceased. There was a light glaze of ice over everything and the limbs of the trees outside the windows crackled when a slight puff of wind blew the gray mist across the campus. It was a dispiriting scene, Hugh thought, but Bert, who came yawning in a moment later, appeared to find it quite to his liking.
“Ugh! Put that window down! Say, this is a bully day for the game, isn’t it? Just snappy enough!”
“The field will be wet, though, won’t it?” asked Hugh.
“Not to mention. The sun will be out before noon, and that hay will keep it pretty dry, anyway. Had your bath—pardon me, tub?”
“No. You go ahead if you like.”
“All right, your ’Ighness, I’ll do that very thing. Say, what’s wrong with you? Got the pip or anything? You look like a last summer’s straw!”
“Me? Oh, I’m all right, I fancy, thanks. I—didn’t sleep very well.”
Bert chuckled and playfully shied a pillow at him. “Nerves, me dear boy, nerves! You’ll feel better after you’ve got some food—that is, chow, inside you. I’ll yell if there’s a tub not working.”
Bert’s prediction was verified. Hugh did feel better after his breakfast. Possibly the discovery that he was not the only fellow at the training table that morning who resembled a last summer’s straw helped as much as the food. As has been said before, Hugh had a horror of being “different.”