parts of the field. The water-pail was surrounded and the thirsty
players rinsed out their mouths, well knowing the reprimand that awaited
should they be rash enough to take even one swallow. Sweaters were
hurriedly donned, Simson dealing them out from the pile on the ground,
and the fellows sank on to the benches. Neil saw Sydney, and talked to
him over the fence until he heard his name called from the line-up.

"I think I shall make a touch-down to-day," said Sydney. Neil shook his
head, smiling:

"I don't know about that; you're not feeling so fit to-day, you know."

"Oh, that doesn't matter," answered the cripple. "You just watch me."

Neil laughed, and hurrying off, was fitted with his head harness and
trotted out to his place. Sydney was mistaken, as events proved, for
he--in the person of Neil Fletcher--failed to get over the second's
goal-line in either of the short halves; which was also true of all the
other varsity players. But if she didn't score, the varsity kept the
second at bay, and that was a good deal. The second played desperately,
being convinced that Mills would keep his promise and, if they succeeded
in scoring on their opponents, give them the honor of facing Harvard the
following Wednesday. But the varsity, being equally convinced of the
fact, played quite as desperately, and the two teams trotted off with
honors even.

"Sponge off, everybody!" was the stentorian command from the trainer,
and one by one the players leaned over while the big, dripping sponge
was applied to face and head. Then sweaters were again donned and the
four laps around the field began, the men trotting by twos and threes,