“‘Antidote’s’ good,” commented Mills laughingly.

“I tried all sorts of notions,” continued Sydney, “and spoiled whole reams of paper drawing diagrams.  But it was all nonsense.  I had the right idea, though, all the time; I realized that if that tandem was going to be stopped it would have to be stopped before it hit our line.”

Mills nodded.

“I had the idea, as I say, but I couldn’t apply it.  And that’s the way things stood last night when I went to bed.  I had sat up until after eleven and had used up all the paper I had, and so when I got into bed I saw diagrams all over the place and had an awful time to get to sleep.  But at last I did.  And then I dreamed.

“And in the dream I was playing football.  That’s the first time I ever played it, and I guess it’ll be the last.  I was all done up in sweaters and things until I couldn’t do much more than move my arms and head.  It seemed that we were in 9 Grace Hall, only there was grass instead of floor, and it was all marked out like a gridiron.  And everybody was there, I guess; the President and the Dean, and you and Mr. Jones, and Mr. Preston and—­and my mother.  It was awfully funny about my mother.  She kept sewing more sweaters on to me all the time, because, as she said, the more I had on the less likely I was to get hurt.  And Devoe was there, and he was saying that it wasn’t fair; that the football rules distinctly said that players should wear only one sweater.  But nobody paid any attention to him.  And after a bit, when I was so covered with sweaters that I was round, like a big ball, the Dean whistled and we got into line—­that is,” said Sydney doubtfully, “it was sort of like a line.  There was the President and Neil Fletcher and I on one side, and all the others, at least thirty of them, on the other.  It didn’t seem quite fair, but I didn’t like to object for fear they’d say I was afraid.”

“Well, you did have the nightmare,” said Mills.  “Then what?”

“The other side got into a bunch, and I knew they were playing tackle-back, although of course they weren’t really; they just all stood together.  And I didn’t see any ball, either.  Then some one yelled ’Smash ‘em up!’ and they started for us.  At that Neil—­at least I think it was Neil—­and Prexy—­I mean the President—­took hold of me, lifted me up like a bag of potatoes, and hurled me right at the other crowd.  I went flying through the air, turning round and round and round, till I thought I’d never stop.  Then there was an awful bump, I yelled ‘Down!’ at the top of my lungs—­and woke up.  I was on the floor.”

Mills laughed, and Sydney took breath.

“At first I didn’t know what had happened.  Then I remembered the dream, and all on a sudden, like a flash of lightning, it occurred to me that that was the way to stop tackle-back!”

“That?  What?” asked Mills, looking puzzled.

“Why, the bag of potatoes act,” laughed Sydney.  “I jumped up, lighted the gas, got pencil and paper and went back to bed and worked it out.  And here it is.”