Neil leaned his head against the pillow and closed his eyes.

“Oh, go ’way,” he muttered miserably.

When Paul came in half an hour later he found Neil staring motionless out of the window, settled melancholy on his face.

“How bad is it, chum?” asked Paul.  He hadn’t called Neil “chum” for over a week—­not since their quarrel.

“Bad enough to spoil my chances for the Robinson game,” answered Neil bitterly.  Paul gave vent to a low whistle.

“By Jove!  I am sorry, old chap.  That’s beastly, isn’t it?  What does Prentiss say?”

Neil told him and gained some degree of animation in fervid protestation against his fate.  For want of another, he held the doctor to account for everything, only admitting Simson to an occasional share in the blame.  Paul looked genuinely distressed, joining him in denunciation of Prentiss and uttering such bits of consolation as occurred to him.  These generally consisted of such original remarks as “Perhaps it won’t be as bad as they think.”  “I don’t believe doctors know everything, after all.”  “Mills will make them get you around before two weeks, I’ll bet.”

After dinner Paul returned to report a state of general gloom at training-table.

“Every one’s awfully sorry and cut up about it, chum.  Mills says he’ll come and look you up in the morning, and told me to tell you to keep your courage up.”  After his information had given out, Paul walked restlessly about the study, taking up book after book only to lay it down again, and behaving generally like a fish out of water.  Neil, grateful for the other’s sympathy, and secretly delighted at the healing of the breach, could afford to be generous.

“I say, Paul, I’ll be all right.  Just give me the immortal Livy, will you?  Thanks.  And you might put that tray out of the way somewhere and shove the drop-light a bit nearer.  That’s better.  I’ll be all right now; you run along.”

“Run along where?” asked Paul.

“Well, I thought maybe you were going out or—­somewhere.”

Paul’s face expressed astonishment.  He took up a book and settled himself firmly in the wicker rocking-chair.

“No,” he said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Neil studied in silence a while, and Paul turned several pages of his book.  Then footsteps sounded on the stairs and Cowan’s voice hailed Paul from beyond the closed door.

“O Paul, are you coming along?”

Paul glanced irresolutely from the door to Neil’s face, which was bent calmly over his book.  Then—­“No,” he called gruffly, “not to-night!”

CHAPTER XIII

SYDNEY STUDIES STRATEGY