Neil wrapped a frayed gray blanket about his shoulders and reflected ruefully upon events.  He knew that he had played poorly; that he had twice tied up the play by allowing his thoughts to wander; that his end-running had been slow, almost listless, and that his performance at goal-kicking had been miserable.  He had missed two tries from placement, one on the twenty yards and another on the twenty-seven, and had only succeeded at a drop-kick by the barest of margins.  He couldn’t even lay the blame on his injured shoulder, for that was no longer a factor in his playing; the bandages were off and only a leather pad remained to remind him of the incident.  No, he had simply worried his stupid head over Paul’s troubles, he told himself, and had thereby disappointed the coaches, the captain, and himself.  Simson found him presently and sent him trotting about the field, an exercise that worked some of his gloom off and left him in a fairly cheerful frame of mind when he ran up the locker-house steps.

But at dinner he found that his appetite had almost deserted him.  Simson observed him gravely, and after the meal was over questioned closely.  Neil answered rather irritably, and the trainer’s uneasiness increased; but he only said: 

“Go to bed early to-night and lay off to-morrow.  You’ll be better by Monday.  And you might take a walk to-morrow afternoon; go off into the country somewhere; see if you can’t find some one to go with you.  How’s the shoulder?  No trouble there, is there?”

“No, there’s no trouble anywhere; I just wasn’t hungry.”

“Well, you do what I’ve told you and you’ll get your appetite back, my boy.”

Neil turned away frowning and took himself to his lodging, feeling angry with Simson because he was going to keep him off the field, and angry with himself because—­oh, just because he was.

But Neil was not the only person concerned with Erskine athletics who was out of sorts that night.  A general air of gloom had pervaded the dinner-table.  Mills had been even silenter than usual; the three other coaches present had been plainly worried, and Simson, in spite of his attempts to keep the conversation cheerful, had showed that he too was bothered about something.  A bomb-shell had landed in the Erskine camp and had exploded in Mills’s quarters.

On the front steps Neil met Cowan.  The two always nodded to each other, but to-night Neil’s curt salutation went unheeded.  Cowan, with troubled face, hurried by him and went up the street toward Mills’s rooms.

“Every one’s grouchy to-night,” muttered Neil.  “Even Cowan looks as though he was going to be shot.”

Meanwhile the athletic authorities of Erskine and the coaches were met in extraordinary session.  They were considering a letter which had arrived that afternoon from Collegetown.  In the letter Robinson announced her protest of Thomas L. Cowan, right-guard on the Erskine football team, on the score of professionalism.