The day after the Forest Hill defeat was warm and languid, more like a November day. Gerald had gone to Sound View the evening before, as was his custom when his father was at home, and Kendall, having attended church in the forenoon and eaten a dinner at the training table for which he had had little appetite, was at a loss how to spend his afternoon. There were fellows whom he might look up and who would doubtless be glad to see him, but somehow he didn’t feel very sociable. For one thing, he had been through forty-eight minutes of hard play the day before and felt lame and battered, although there were no scars to show. Perhaps, too, the weather induced a feeling of apathy; it was too warm. He wrote his Sunday letter, taking a good deal of time over it, and managing to fill six pages. But after that was sealed and addressed there seemed nothing left to do. Gerald had suggested that he might come up after dinner and take him to ride in the automobile, but evidently Gerald had changed his mind. The dormitory was quiet and probably pretty well deserted, for it was no sort of a day to stay indoors. Kendall finally reached that conclusion himself and, pulling a cap on to the back of his head, he sauntered along the hall and down the stairs and so out into the afternoon world, wincing now and then when his sore muscles protested and dimly oppressed with the emptiness of existence. Kendall’s condition of mind was, had he but known it, no uncommon one for the football player the day after a hard game and a defeat. One cares very little for bruises and weariness after a victory, but a defeat takes all the glory from them.