idea of going to Robinson, he had derided the possibility of Paul
failing to make the Erskine team; and now that possibility was rapidly
assuming the appearance of a probability. Certainly the fault was
Paul's, and not his; but the thought contained small comfort.

Next day's practise, in preparation for Erskine's last game before the
Robinson contest, proved Paul's fears far from groundless. Gillam, Neil,
and Mason started work when the line-up was formed, and Paul looked on
heart-brokenly from the bench. It was not until Neil had failed twice
and succeeded once at field-goals, and Gillam had been well hammered by
the second's tandem plays, that Paul secured a chance. Then Neil was
taken out and his friend put in.

Neil wrapped a frayed gray blanket about his shoulders and reflected
ruefully upon events. He knew that he had played poorly; that he had
twice tied up the play by allowing his thoughts to wander; that his
end-running had been slow, almost listless, and that his performance at
goal-kicking had been miserable. He had missed two tries from placement,
one on the twenty yards and another on the twenty-seven, and had only
succeeded at a drop-kick by the barest of margins. He couldn't even lay
the blame on his injured shoulder, for that was no longer a factor in
his playing; the bandages were off and only a leather pad remained to
remind him of the incident. No, he had simply worried his stupid head
over Paul's troubles, he told himself, and had thereby disappointed the
coaches, the captain, and himself. Simson found him presently and sent
him trotting about the field, an exercise that worked some of his gloom
off and left him in a fairly cheerful frame of mind when he ran up the
locker-house steps.

But at dinner he found that his appetite had almost deserted him. Simson