"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 matter. He's got professional written all over
his face."

"But he played last year," said Paul. "Why didn't they protest him
then?"