“Well, don’t mention our talk to him, please; he might start to worrying, and that’s what we don’t want, you know.  Perhaps he’ll be in better shape to-day.  We’ll try him in the ‘antidote.’”

But contrary to the hopes of the head coach, Neil showed no improvement.  His playing was slow, and he seemed to go at things in a half-hearted way far removed from his usual dash and vim.  Even the signals appeared to puzzle him at times, and more than once Foster turned upon him in surprise.

“Say, what the dickens is the matter with you, Neil?” he whispered once.  Neil showed surprise.

“Why, nothing; I’m all right.”

“Well, I’m glad you told me,” grumbled the quarter-back, “for I’d never have guessed it, my boy.”

Before the end of the ten minutes of open practise was over Neil had managed to make so many blunders that even the fellows on the seats noticed and remarked upon it.  Later, when the singing and cheering were over and the gates were closed behind the last marching freshman, Neil found himself in hot water.  The coaches descended upon him in a small army, and he stood bewildered while they accused him of every sin in the football decalogue.  Devoe took a hand, too, and threatened to put him off if he didn’t wake up.

“Play or get off the field,” he said.  “And, hang it all, man, look intelligent, as though you liked the game!”

Neil strove to look intelligent by banishing the expression of bewilderment from his face, and stood patiently by until the last coach had hurled the last bolt at his defenseless head—­defenseless, that is, save for the head harness that was dripping rain-drops down his neck.  Then he trotted off to the line-up with a queer, half-painful grin on his face.

“I guess it’s settled for me,” he said to, himself, as he rubbed his cold, wet hands together.  “Evidently I sha’n’t have to play off to give Paul his place; I’ve done it already.  I suppose I’ve been bothering my head about it until I’ve forgotten what I’ve been doing.  I wish though—­” he sighed—­“I wish it hadn’t been necessary to disgust Mills and Bob Devoe and all the others who have been so decent and have hoped so much of me.  But it’s settled now.  Whether it’s right or wrong, I’m going to play like a fool until they get tired of jumping on me and just yank me out in sheer disgust.

“Simson’s got his eagle eye on me, the old ferret!  And he will have me on the hospital list to-morrow, I’ll bet a dollar.  He’ll say I’ve gone ‘fine’ and tell me to get plenty of sleep and stay outdoors.  And the doctor will give me a lot of nasty medicine.  Well, it’s all in the bargain.  I’d like to have played in Saturday’s game, though; but Paul has set his heart on it, and if he doesn’t make the team he’ll have seven fits.  It means more to him than it does to me, and next fall will soon be here.  I can wait.”

“Fletcher!  Wake up, will you?”

Foster was glaring at him angrily.  The blood rushed into Neil’s face and he leaped to his position.  Even Ted Foster’s patience had given out, Neil told himself; and he, like all the rest, would have only contempt for him to-morrow.  The ball was wet and slimy and easily fumbled.  Neil lost it the first time it came into his hands.