“It just means,” wailed Foster, who had brought the tidings to Neil and Paul, “that it’s all over with us.  I don’t know what Cowan has to say, but I’ll bet a—­I’ll bet my new typewriter!—­that Robinson’s right.  And with Cowan gone from right-guard, where are we?  We haven’t the ghost of a show.  The only fellow they can play in his place is Witter, and he’s a pygmy.  Not that Witter doesn’t know the position, for he does; but he’s too light.  Was there ever such luck?  What good is Burr’s patent, double-action, self-inking, cylindrical, switch-back defense if we haven’t got a line that will hold together long enough for us to get off our toes?  It—­it’s rotten luck, that’s what it is.”

And the varsity quarter-back groaned dolorously.

“But what does Cowan say?” asked Neil.

“Don’t ask me,” said Foster.  “I don’t know what he says, and I don’t believe it will matter.  He’s got professional written all over his face.”

“But he played last year,” said Paul.  “Why didn’t they protest him then?”

“I’ll pass again,” answered Foster.  “Maybe they hadn’t discovered it—­whatever it is—­then; maybe—­”

“Listen!” said Neil.

Some one stamped up the steps and entered the front door.  Foster looked questioningly at Neil.

“Cowan?” he whispered.  Neil nodded.

Foster sprang to the study door and threw it open.  The light from the room fell on the white and angry countenance of the right-guard.

“Cowan,” said Foster, “for heaven’s sake, man, tell us about it!  Is it all right?”

But Tom Cowan only glared as he passed on up the stairs.

CHAPTER XVII

A PLAN AND A CONFESSION

Robinson’s protest set forth succinctly that Cowan had, three years previous, played left tackle on the football team of a certain academy—­whose right to the title of academy was often questioned—­and had received money for his services.  Dates and other particulars were liberally supplied, and the name and address of the captain of the team were given.  Altogether, the letter was discouragingly convincing, and neither the coaches, the captain, nor the athletic officers really doubted the truth of the charge.

Professor Nast, the chairman of the Athletic Committee, blinked gravely through his glasses and looked about the room.

“You’ve sent for Mr. Cowan?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mills answered; “he ought to be here in a minute.  How in the world was he allowed to get on to the team?”

“Well, his record was gone over, as we believed, very thoroughly year before last,” said Professor Nast; “and we found nothing against him.  I think—­ah—­it seems probable that he unintentionally misled us.  Perhaps he can—­ah—­explain.”

When, however, Cowan faced the group of grave-faced men it was soon evident that explanations were far from his thoughts.  He had heard enough before the summons reached him to enable him to surmise what awaited him, and when Professor Nast explained their purpose in calling him before them, Cowan only displayed what purported to be honest indignation.  He stormed violently against the Robinson authorities and defied them to prove their charge.  Mills listened a while impatiently and then interrupted him abruptly.