“By the way,” he asked, “where’s Paul to-night?”

“He’s calling on Cowan,” answered Neil.

Sydney looked as though he wanted to say something and didn’t dare.  Finally he found courage.

“I should think he’d stay in his room now that you’re laid up,” he said.

“Oh, he does,” answered Neil.  “Paul’s all right, only he’s a bit—­careless.  I guess I’ve humored him too much.  Good-night.  Don’t forget to-morrow night.”

Mills called the following forenoon.  Ever since Neil’s accident he had made it his duty to inquire daily after him, and the two were getting very well acquainted.  Neil likened Mills to a crab—­rather crusty on the outside, he told himself, but all right when you got under the shell.  Neil was getting under the shell.

To-day, after Neil had reported on his state of health and spirits, he brought out Sydney’s diagram.  Mills examined it carefully, silently, for some time.  Then he nodded his head.

“Not bad; rather clever.  Who did it; you?”

“No, I couldn’t if I was to be killed.  Sydney Burr did it.  Maybe you’ve seen him.  A cripple; goes around on a tricycle.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the boy.  But does he—­has he played?”

“Never; he’s been a crip all his life.”  Mills opened his eyes in astonishment.

“Well, if that’s so this is rather wonderful.  It’s a good play, Fletcher, but it’s not original; that is, not altogether.  But as far as Burr’s concerned it is, of course.  Look here, the fellow ought to be encouraged.  I’ll see him and tell him to try his hand again.”

“He’s coming here this evening,” said Neil.  “Perhaps you could look in for a moment?”

“I will.  Let me take this; I want Jones to see it.  He thinks he’s a wonder at diagrams,” laughed Mills, “and I want to tell him this was got up by a crippled freshman who has never kicked a ball!”

And so that evening Mills and Neil and Sydney gathered about the big study-table and talked long about gridiron tactics and strategy and the art of inventing plays.  Mills praised Sydney’s production and encouraged him to try again.

“But let me tell you first how we’re situated,” said the head coach, “so that you will see just what we’re after.  Our material is good but light.  Robinson will come into the field on the twenty-third weighing about eight pounds more to a man in the line and ten pounds more behind it.  That’s bad enough, but she’s going to play tackle-back about the way we’ve taught the second eleven to play it.  Her tackles will weigh about one hundred and eighty-five pounds each.  She will take one of those men, range him up in front of our center-guard hole, and put two backs with him, tandem fashion.  When that trio, joined by the other half and the quarter, hits our line it’s going right through it—­that is, unless we can find some means of stopping it.  So far we haven’t found that means.  We’ve tried several things; we’re still trying; but we haven’t found the play we want.