The two chums were back again in their room, and Andy brought out his catching glove, which he proceeded to mend.
Quiet was settling down over the quadrangle and in the dormitories about the big, elm-shaded square. Light after light in the rooms of the students went out. In the distant city streets the hum of traffic grew less and less.
It was quiet in the room where Dunk and Andy sat. Now and then, from some room would come the tinkle of a piano, or the hum of some soft-voiced chorus.
“What was that you said about horseshoe nails and bees?” asked Dunk, drowsily, from his corner of the much be-cushioned sofa.
“Forget it,” advised Andy, sleepily. “I’m going to turn in. I’m in just the mood to drowse off now, and I don’t want to get roused up.”
“Same here, Andy. Say, but I wish it were to-morrow!”
“So do I, old man!”
The room grew more quiet. Only the night wind sighed through the opened window, fluttering the blue curtains.
Andy and Dunk were asleep.
The day of the ball game came, as all days do—if you wait long enough. There was a good crowd on the benches and in the grandstand when Andy and his mates came out for practice. Of course it was not like a varsity championship contest, but the Princeton nine had brought along some “rooters” and there were songs and cheers from the rival colleges.