Our heroes were up early the next morning, to indulge in a practice run with the football squad—a little jaunt along the river, proposed by the exacting coach, with the idea of improving the wind of his men.
"Jove! but it's getting cold!" remarked Tom, as rosy and glowing with health, he and his mates turned into the gymnasium for a shower, and vigorous rub before breakfast.
"Regular football weather," agreed Sid. "Well, I feel as if I could tackle Boxer Hall and Fairview together now."
"Keep on feeling that way," urged the coach, grimly, as he passed by. "We all need it."
An unexpected storm blew up that night, putting a stop to practice on the gridiron, and the squad had to be content with indoor work. The weather grew worse, and by night there was a gale blowing.
"Old King Winter isn't far off, by the sound of that," remarked Tom, who, with his chums, was in the room, studying or making a pretense of so doing. He arose, and, going to the window, where Sid was, looked out. There came a sharp dash of rain against the glass.
"It's a peach of a night!" exclaimed Sid, as he turned back with a shiver to his comfortable nook on the old sofa.
"Yes, but we're snug and cozy here," mur-
