Erskine was marching out to the field to cheer the eleven and to practise the songs that were to be chanted defiantly at the game.  Sydney had started with his class, but had soon been left behind, the rubber tires of the machine slipping badly in the mud.  Presently the head of the procession, but dimly visible to him through the mist, turned in at the gate, the monster flag of royal purple, with its big white E, drooping wet and forlorn on its staff.  They were cheering again now, and Sydney whispered an accompaniment behind the collar of his coat: 

“Erskine!  Erskine!  Erskine!  Rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah!  Erskine!  Erskine!  Erskine!”

Suddenly footsteps sounded behind him and the tricycle went forward apparently of its own volition.  Sydney turned quickly and saw Mills’s blue eyes twinkling down at him.

“Did I surprise you?” laughed the coach.

“Yes, I thought my wheel had suddenly turned into an automobile.”

“Hard work for you, I’m afraid.  You should have let me send a trap for you,” said Mills.  “Never mind those handles.  Put your hands in your pockets and I’ll get you there in no time.  What a beast of a day, isn’t it?”

“Y—­yes,” answered Sydney, “I suppose it is.  But I rather like it.”

“Like it?  Great Scott!  Why?”

“Well, the mist feels good on your face, don’t you think so?  And the trees down there along the railroad look so gray and soft.  I don’t know, but there’s something about this sort of a day that makes me feel good.”

“Well, every one to his taste,” Mills replied.  “By the way, here’s something I cut out of the Robinson Argus; thought you’d like to see it.”  He drew a clipping from a pocketbook and gave it to Sydney, who, shielding it from the wet, read as follows: 

Erskine, we hear, is crowing over a wonderful new play which she thinks she has invented, and with which she expects to get even for what happened last year.  We have not seen the new marvel, of course, but we understand that it is called a “close formation.”  It is safe to say that it is an old play revamped by Erskine’s head coach, Mills.  Last year Mills discovered a form of guards-back which was heralded to the four corners of the earth as the greatest play ever seen.  What happened to it is still within memory.  Consequently we are not greatly alarmed over the latest production of his fertile brain.  Robinson can, we think, find a means of solving any puzzle that Erskine can put together.

“They’re rather hard on you,” laughed Sydney as he returned the clipping.

“I can stand it.  I’m glad they haven’t discovered that we are busy with a defense for their tackle-tandem.  If we can keep that a secret for a few days longer I shall be satisfied.”

“I do hope it will come up to expectations,” said Sydney doubtfully.  “Now that the final test is drawing near I’m beginning to fear that maybe we—­maybe we’re too hopeful.”