“Oh, just knocking around.  I got back late last night.”

“I was afraid you had left college.  You know you said you might.”

“I know.  Well, I’ve changed my mind.  I guess I’ll stay on until recess anyway; maybe until summer.  What’s the use going anywhere else?  If I went to Robinson I couldn’t play; Erskine would protest me.  I wish to goodness I’d had sense enough to let that academy team go hang!  Only I needed some money, and it seemed a good way to make it.  After all, there wasn’t anything dishonest about it!”

“N—­no,” said Paul.

“Well, was there?” Cowan demanded, turning upon him fiercely.  Paul shook his head.

“No, there wasn’t.  Only, of course, you’d ought to have remembered that it disqualified you here.”  Cowan looked surprised.

“My, but you’re getting squeamish!” he said.  “The first thing you know you’ll be as bad as Fletcher.”  There was a moment’s silence.  “What does he say about it?” Cowan asked carelessly.

“Who, Neil?  Oh, he—­he sympathizes with you,” answered Paul vaguely.  “Says it’s awfully hard lines, but doesn’t think the committee could do anything else.”

“Humph!”

“By the way,” said Paul, recollecting his errand, “I met Brill of Robinson a while ago.  He said he’d seen you.”

“Yes,” grunted Cowan.  “I’d like to punch him.  Made believe he was all cut up over my being put off.  Why—­why it was he that knew about that academy business!  Last September he tried to get me to go to Robinson; offered me anything I wanted, and I refused.  After all a—­a fellow’s got some loyalty!  He asked all sorts of questions as to whether I was eligible or not, and I—­I don’t know what made me, but I told him about taking that money for playing tackle on that old academy team.  He said that wouldn’t matter any.  But after I decided not to go to Robinson he changed his tune; said he wasn’t sure but that I was ineligible!”

“He’s a cad,” said Paul.”

“And then to-day he tried to get sympathetic, but I shut him up mighty quick.  I told him I knew well enough he was the one who had started the protest, and offered to punch his nose if he’d come over back of the stores; but he wouldn’t,” added Cowan aggrievedly.

“You—­you didn’t let out anything to him that would—­er—­help them in the game, did you?” asked Paul, studying the floor with great attention.

“Let out anything?” asked Cowan in puzzled tones.  “What do you—­” He put down the picture he held and faced Paul, the blood dying his face.  “Look here, Paul, what do you mean by that?”

“Why, why—­”

“You want to know if I turned traitor?  If I gave away our signals or something like that, eh?” There was honest indignation in his voice and a trace of pain, and Paul regretted his suspicions on the instant.

“Oh, come now, old man,” he began, “what I meant—­”