ake a walk to-morrow afternoon; go off into the
country somewhere; see if you can't find some one to go with you. How's
the shoulder? No trouble there, is there?"

"No, there's no trouble anywhere; I just wasn't hungry."

"Well, you do what I've told you and you'll get your appetite back, my
boy."

Neil turned away frowning and took himself to his lodging, feeling angry
with Simson because he was going to keep him off the field, and angry
with himself because--oh, just because he was.

But Neil was not the only person concerned with Erskine athletics who
was out of sorts that night. A general air of gloom had pervaded the
dinner-table. Mills had been even silenter than usual; the three other
coaches present had been plainly worried, and Simson, in spite of his
attempts to keep the conversation cheerful, had showed that he too was
bothered about something. A bomb-shell had landed in the Erskine camp
and had exploded in Mills's quarters.

On the front steps Neil met Cowan. The two always nodded to each other,
but to-night Neil's curt salutation went unheeded. Cowan, with troubled
face, hurried by him and went up the street toward Mills's rooms.

"Every one's grouchy to-night," muttered Neil. "Even Cowan looks as
though he was going to be shot."

Meanwhile the athletic authorities of Erskine and the coaches were met
in extraordinary session. They were considering a letter which had
arrived that afternoon from Collegetown. In the letter Robinson
announced her protest of Thomas L. Cowan, right-guard on the Erskine
football team, on the score of professionalism.

"It just means," wailed Foster, who had brought the tidings to Neil and
Paul, "that it's all over with us. I don't know what Cowan has to say,
but I'll bet a--I'll bet my new typewriter!--that Robinson's right. And
with Cowan gone from right-guard, where are we? We haven't the ghost of
a show. The only fellow they can play in his place is Witter, and he's a
pygmy. Not that Witter doesn't know the position, for he does; but he's
too light. Was there ever such luck? What good is Burr's patent,
double-action, self-inking, cylindrical, switch-back defense if we
haven't got a line that will hold together long enough for us to get off
our toes? It--it's rotten luck, that's what it is."

And the varsity quarter-back groaned dolorously.

"But what does Cowan say?" asked Neil.

"Don't ask me," said Foster. "I don't know what he says, and I don't
believe it will m