Part 19 (2/2)
Neil answered rather irritably, and the trainer's uneasiness increased; but he only said:
”Go to bed early to-night and lay off to-morrow. You'll be better by Monday. And you might take a walk to-morrow afternoon; go off into the country somewhere; see if you can't find some one to go with you. How's the shoulder? No trouble there, is there?”
”No, there's no trouble anywhere; I just wasn't hungry.”
”Well, you do what I've told you and you'll get your appet.i.te back, my boy.”
Neil turned away frowning and took himself to his lodging, feeling angry with Simson because he was going to keep him off the field, and angry with himself because--oh, just because he was.
But Neil was not the only person concerned with Erskine athletics who was out of sorts that night. A general air of gloom had pervaded the dinner-table. Mills had been even silenter than usual; the three other coaches present had been plainly worried, and Simson, in spite of his attempts to keep the conversation cheerful, had showed that he too was bothered about something. A bomb-sh.e.l.l had landed in the Erskine camp and had exploded in Mills's quarters.
On the front steps Neil met Cowan. The two always nodded to each other, but to-night Neil's curt salutation went unheeded. Cowan, with troubled face, hurried by him and went up the street toward Mills's rooms.
”Every one's grouchy to-night,” muttered Neil. ”Even Cowan looks as though he was going to be shot.”
Meanwhile the athletic authorities of Erskine and the coaches were met in extraordinary session. They were considering a letter which had arrived that afternoon from Collegetown. In the letter Robinson announced her protest of Thomas L. Cowan, right-guard on the Erskine football team, on the score of professionalism.
”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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 t.i.tle 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.
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