But meanwhile other things, pleasant and unpleasant, had happened, and we must return to the day which had witnessed the inception of Sydney Burr’s “antidote.”

CHAPTER XVI

ROBINSON SENDS A PROTEST

When Sydney left Mills that morning he trundled himself along Elm Street to Neil’s lodgings in the hope of finding that youth and telling him of his good fortune.  But the windows of the first floor front study were wide open, the curtains were hanging out over the sills, and from within came the sound of the broom and clouds of dust.  Sydney turned his tricycle about in disappointment and retraced his path, through Elm Lane, by the court-house with its tall white pillars and green shutters, across Washington Street, the wheels of his vehicle rustling through the drifts of dead leaves that lined the sidewalks, and so back to Walton.  He had a recitation at half-past ten, but there was still twenty minutes of leisure according to the dingy-faced clock on the tower of College Hall.  So he left the tricycle by the steps, and putting his crutches under his arms, swung himself into the building and down the corridor to his study.  The door was ajar and he thrust it open with his foot.

“Please be careful of the paint,” expostulated a voice, and Sydney paused in surprise.

“Well,” he said; “I’ve just been over to your room looking for you.”

“Have you?  Sorry I wasn’t—­Say, Syd, listen to this.”  Neil dragged a pillow into a more comfortable place and sat up.  He had been stretched at full length on the big window-seat.  “Here it is in a nutshell,” he continued, waving the paper he was reading.

     “’First a signal, then a thud,
       And your face is in the mud. 
       Some one jumps upon your back,
       And your ribs begin to crack. 
       Hear a whistle.  “Down!” That’s all. 
       ‘Tis the way to play football.’”

“Pretty good, eh?  Hello, what’s up?  Your face looks as bright as though you’d polished it.  How dare you allow your countenance to express joy when in another quarter of an hour I shall be struggling over my head in the history of Rome during the second Punic War?  But there, go ahead; unbosom yourself.  I can see you’re bubbling over with delightful news.  Have they decided to abolish the Latin language?  Or has the faculty been kidnaped?  Have they changed their minds and decided to take me with ’em to New Haven to-morrow?  Come, little Bright Eyes, out with it!”

Sydney told his good news, not without numerous eager interruptions from Neil, and when he had ended the latter executed what he called a “Punic war-dance.”  It was rather a striking performance, quite stately and impressive, for when one’s left shoulder is made immovable by much bandaging it is difficult, as Neil breathlessly explained, to display abandon—­the latter spoken through the nose to give it the correct French pronunciation.