Morning! Was it possible that morning had already come? Of course not! He hadn’t before suspected Mittengale of being a practical joker. Morning, indeed! He felt quite vexed—quite exasperated, in fact.
The effects his eyes took in were precisely similar to those he had seen on retiring—the same glimmering yellowish lights, the same lurking shadows, the long row of windows framing in the palish moonlight of the outside world.
He was about to protest. But before he had time the big room, all at once, became filled with noise and commotion—with the sounds of men jumping out of bed, of men talking, of men hurrying and bustling about as though their very lives depended upon the swiftness of their movements.
So, after all, Roy wasn’t a practical joker.
“All right! All right!” mumbled Don. “I’ll get right up.”
“You’d better,” continued Mittengale, laughingly.
Don Hale certainly had that early morning feeling, besides being cold and shivery; but, though he devoutly wished that he might enjoy a few minutes more of repose, he slipped off the mattress and fairly jumped into his clothes. By the time Don had finished dressing he was alone.
A swift dash for the door and a brisk run after leaving the barracks enabled him, however, to overtake speedily the more tardy students.
It was still a calm, serene moonlight night, with the stars dimmed by the greater lustre of the earth’s satellite, and no hint, no trace of color in the eastern sky to herald the approach of another day.
The destination of the hurrying crowd Don found was the wash-house situated not far away; and on arriving there he discovered that certainly “all the comforts of home” appeared to be lacking.