Part 15 (1/2)

Neil told him and gained some degree of animation in fervid protestation against his fate. For want of another, he held the doctor to account for everything, only admitting Simson to an occasional share in the blame.

Paul looked genuinely distressed, joining him in denunciation of Prentiss and uttering such bits of consolation as occurred to him. These generally consisted of such original remarks as ”Perhaps it won't be as bad as they think.” ”I don't believe doctors know everything, after all.” ”Mills will make them get you around before two weeks, I'll bet.”

After dinner Paul returned to report a state of general gloom at training-table.

”Every one's awfully sorry and cut up about it, chum. Mills says he'll come and look you up in the morning, and told me to tell you to keep your courage up.” After his information had given out, Paul walked restlessly about the study, taking up book after book only to lay it down again, and behaving generally like a fish out of water. Neil, grateful for the other's sympathy, and secretly delighted at the healing of the breach, could afford to be generous.

”I say, Paul, I'll be all right. Just give me the immortal Livy, will you? Thanks. And you might put that tray out of the way somewhere and shove the drop-light a bit nearer. That's better. I'll be all right now; you run along.”

”Run along where?” asked Paul.

”Well, I thought maybe you were going out or--somewhere.”

Paul's face expressed astonishment. He took up a book and settled himself firmly in the wicker rocking-chair.

”No,” he said, ”I'm not going anywhere.”

Neil studied in silence a while, and Paul turned several pages of his book. Then footsteps sounded on the stairs and Cowan's voice hailed Paul from beyond the closed door.

”O Paul, are you coming along?”

Paul glanced irresolutely from the door to Neil's face, which was bent calmly over his book. Then--”No,” he called gruffly, ”not to-night!”

CHAPTER XIII

SYDNEY STUDIES STRATEGY

Neil was holding a levee. Livingston shared the couch with him. Foster reclined in Paul's armchair. Sydney Burr sat in the protesting wicker rocker, his crutches beside him, and South, his countenance much disfigured by strips of surgeon's plaster, grinned steadily from the table, where he sat and swung his feet. Paul was up-stairs in Cowan's room, for while he and Neil had quite made up their difference, and while Paul spent much of his leisure time with his chum, yet he still cultivated the society of the big soph.o.m.ore at intervals. Neil, however, believed he could discern a gradual lessening of Paul's regard for Cowan, and was encouraged. He had grown to look upon his injury and the idleness it enforced with some degree of cheerfulness since it had brought about reconciliation between him and his roommate, and, as he believed, rescued the latter to some extent from the influence of Cowan.

”Doc says the shoulder is 'doing nicely,' whatever that may mean,” Neil was saying, ”and that I will likely be able to get back to light work next week.” The announcement didn't sound very joyful, for it was now only the evening of the fourth day since the accident, and ”next week”

seemed a long way off to him.

”It was hard luck, old man,” said South.

”Your sympathy's very dear to me,” answered Neil, ”but it would seem more genuine if you'd stop grinning from ear to ear.”

”Can't,” replied South. ”It's the plaster.”

”He's been looking like the Ches.h.i.+re cat for two days,” said Livingston.

”You see, when they patched him up they asked if he was suffering much agony, and he grinned that way just to show that he was a hero, and before he could get his face straight they had the plaster on. He gets credit for being much better natured than he really is.”

”Credit!” said South. ”I get worse than that. 'Sandy' saw me grinning at him in cla.s.s yesterday and got as mad as a March hare; said I was 'deesrespectful.'”

”But how did it happen?” asked Neil, struggling with his laughter.

”Lacrosse,” replied South. ”Murdoch was tending goal and I was trying to get the ball by him. I tripped over his stick and banged my face against a goal-iron. That's all.”

”Seems to me it's enough,” said Foster. ”What did you do to Murdoch?”

South opened his eyes in innocent surprise.