"I fancied that was the reason," answered Neil gravely. Then their eyes
met and they laughed together.

"Your friend Gale didn't play so well to-day," said Sydney presently.
Neil shook his head with a troubled air.

"No, he played rotten ball, and that's a fact. I don't know what's got
into him of late. He doesn't seem to care whether he pleases Mills or
not. I think it's that chap Cowan. He tells Paul that Mills and Devoe
are imposing on him and that he isn't getting a fair show and all that
sort of stuff. Know Cowan?"

"Only by sight. I don't think I'd care to know him; he looks a good deal
like--like--"

"Just so," laughed Neil. "That's the way he strikes me."

After dinner that evening Paul bewailed what he called his ill luck.
Neil listened patiently for a while; then--

"Look here, Paul," he said, "don't talk such rot. Luck had nothing to do
with it, and you know it. The trouble was that you weren't in shape;
you've been shilly-shallying around of late and just doing good enough
work to keep Mills from dropping you to the scrub. It's that miserable
idiot Tom Cowan that's to blame; he's been filling your head with
nonsense; telling you that you are so good that you don't have to
practise, and that Mills doesn't dare drop you, and lots of poppycock of
that kind. Now, I'll tell you, chum, that the best thing to do is to go
honestly to work and do your best."