"He's still wondering how you went stale before the game and then played the way you did," said Sydney. "However, I didn't say anything." He caught himself up and glanced doubtfully toward Cowan. "I don't know whether it's a secret?" He appealed to Neil, who was frowning across at him.

"What's a secret?" demanded Paul.

"Don't mind me," said Cowan. "It may be a secret, but I guessed it long ago, didn't I, Paul?"

"What in thunder are you all talking about?" asked that youth, staring inquiringly from one to another. Sydney saw that he had touched on forbidden ground and now looked elaborately ignorant.

"Oh, nothing, Paul," answered Neil. "When are you all going out to the field?"

"But there is something," his chum protested warmly. "Now out with it. What is it, Cowan? What did you guess?"

"Why, about Fletcher going stale so that you could get into the game," answered Cowan, apparently ignorant of Neil's wrathful grimaces. "I guessed right away. Why–"

"Oh, shut up, won't you?" Neil entreated. "Don't mind them, Paul; they're crazy. Sydney, you're an ass, if you only knew it."

"But I thought he knew–" began Sydney.

"No, I didn't know," said Paul, quietly, his eyes on Neil's averted face. "I–I must have been blind. It's plain enough now, of course. If I had known I wouldn't have taken the place."

"You're all a set of idiots," muttered Neil.

"I'm sorry I said anything," said Sydney, genuinely distressed.

"I'm glad," said Paul. "I'm such a selfish brute that I can't see half an inch before my nose. Chum, all I've got to say–"

"Shut up," cried Neil. "Listen, fellows, they're marching across the common. Some one help me to the window. I want to see."

Paul strode to his side, and putting an arm under his shoulders lifted him to his feet. Sydney lowered the gas and the four crowded to the window. Across the common, a long dark column in the starlight, tramped all Erskine, and at the head marched the band.

"Gee, what a crowd!" muttered Cowan.

The head of the procession passed through the gate and turned toward the house, and the band struck up 'Neath the Elms of Old Erskine. Hundreds of voices joined in and the slow and stately song thundered up toward the star-sprinkled sky.

Paul's arm was still around his room-mate; its clasp tightened a little.

"Say, chum."

"Well?" muttered Neil.

"Thanks."

"Oh, don't bother me," Neil grumbled. "Let's get out of this; they're stopping."

Sydney had stolen, as noiselessly as one may on crutches, to the chandelier, and suddenly the gas flared up, sending a path of light across the street and revealing the three at the window. Neil, exclaiming and protesting, strove to draw back, but Paul held him fast. From the crowd outside came the deep and long-drawn A-a-ay! and grew and spread up the line.

And then the cheering began.

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