When Paul came in half an hour later he found Neil staring motionless
out of the window, settled melancholy on his face.

"How bad is it, chum?" asked Paul. He hadn't called Neil "chum" for over
a week--not since their quarrel.

"Bad enough to spoil my chances for the Robinson game," answered Neil
bitterly. Paul gave vent to a low whistle.

"By Jove! I am sorry, old chap. That's beastly, isn't it? What does
Prentiss say?"

Neil told him and gained some degree of animation in fervid protestation
against his fate. For want of another, he held the doctor to account for
everything, only admitting Simson to an occasional share in the blame.
Paul looked genuinely distressed, joining him in denunciation of
Prentiss and uttering such bits of consolation as occurred to him. These
generally consisted of such original remarks as "Perhaps it won't be as
bad as they think." "I don't believe doctors know everything, after
all." "Mills will make them get you around before two weeks, I'll bet."

After dinner Paul returned to report a state of general gloom at
training-table.

"Every one's awfully sorry and cut up about it, chum. Mills says he'll
come and look you up in the morning, and told me to tell you to keep
your courage up." After his information had given out, Paul walked
restlessly about the study, taking up book after book only to lay it
down again, and behaving generally like a fish out of water. Neil,
grateful for the other's sympathy, and secretly delighted at the healing