Ralph Henry Barbour 
For Yardley 

“Wonder why it always rains on Saturdays?” muttered Alf Loring, laying his book face-down in his lap and staring discontentedly out of the window beside him.

It was a cheerless outlook. Through the blurred panes his gaze traversed the Yard, empty and bedraggled, to the back of Merle Hall and the gymnasium. Everywhere was rotting snow or pools of water, while from a low, leaden sky the rain fell straight and persistently. It had been raining just this way all day and half of last night, and to all appearances it intended to continue raining in the same manner for another twenty-four hours. Yesterday the Yard had been a foot deep in nice clean snow, the result of the blizzard that had swept over Wissining and New England in general two days before, and there had been more than one jolly battle royal out there. But now—Alf sighed; and, turning, looked aggrievedly at his roommate.