Paul was deeply insulted by this plain speaking, and very promptly took himself off up-stairs to Cowan’s room.  Of late he spent a good deal of his time there and Neil was getting worried.  For Cowan was notably an idler, and the wonder was how he managed to keep himself in college even though he was taking but a partial course.  To be sure, Cowan’s fate didn’t bother Neil a bit, but he was greatly afraid that his example would be followed by his roommate, who, at the best, was none too fond of study.  Neil sat long that evening over an unopened book, striving to think of some method of weakening Cowan’s hold on Paul—­a hold that was daily growing stronger and which threatened to work ill to the latter.  In the end Neil sighed, tossed down the volume, and made ready for bed without having found a solution of the problem.

The following Monday Neil was rewarded for his good showing in the Woodby game by being taken on to the varsity.  Paul remained on the second team, and Cowan, greatly to that gentleman’s bewilderment and wrath, joined him there.  The two teams, with their substitutes, went to training-table that day in Pearson’s boarding-house on Elm Street, and preparation for the game with Harvard, now but nine days distant, began in earnest.

CHAPTER XI

THE RESULT OF A FUMBLE

Sydney Burr had trundled himself out to the field and had drawn his tricycle close up to the low wooden fence that divides the gridiron from the grand stand and against which the players on the benches lean their blanketed backs.  From there he had an uninterrupted view.  It was a perfect afternoon.  Overhead a few white clouds drifted lazily about against a warm blue sky.  The sun shone brightly and mocked at light overcoats.  But for all that there was an October sparkle in the air, and once in a while a tiny breeze from the north came across the yellowing field and whispered that winter was not far behind.

Sydney had a rug thrown over his lower limbs and wore a warm white woolen sweater.  There was quite a dash of color in his usually pale cheeks, and his blue eyes flashed with interest as he watched the men at practise.  Near at hand a panting group of fellows were going through the signals, the quarter crying his numbers with gasps for breath, then passing the ball to half-or full-back and quickly throwing himself into the interference.  Sydney recognized him as Bailey, the varsity substitute.  Sydney knew almost all the players by sight now and the names of many.

Near the east goal two lines of heaving, charging men were being coached by Mills in breaking through.  Stowell, the big, good-natured substitute center, was bending over the ball.  Sydney could hear Mills’s sharp voice: 

“Now draw back, defense, and lunge into them!  Get the start on them!”

Then the ball was snapped and the two ranks heaved and pitched a moment before the offense broke through and scattered the turf with little clumps of writhing players.