These proved to be Paul and Sydney and--Neil stared--Tom Cowan.
"Rah-rah-rah!" shouted Paul, slamming the door. "How are they coming, chum? Here's Burr and Cowan to make polite injuries after your inquiries--I mean inquiries--well, you know what I mean. Tom's been saying all sorts of nice things about your playing, and I think he'd like to shake hands with the foot that kicked that goal."
Neil laughed and put out his hand. Cowan, grinning, took it.
"It was fine, Fletcher," he said with genuine enthusiasm. "And, some way, I knew when I saw you drop back that you were going to put it over. I'd have bet a hundred dollars on it!"
"Thunder, you were more confident than I was!" Neil laughed. "I wouldn't have bet more than thirty cents. Well, Board of Strategy, how did you like the game?"
Sydney shook his head gravely.
"I wouldn't care to go through it again," he answered. "I had all kinds of heart disease before the first half was over, and after that I was in a sort of daze; didn't know really whether it was football or Friday-night lectures."
"You ought to have been at table to-night, chum," said Paul. "We made Rome howl. Mills made a speech, and so did Jones and 'Baldy,' and--oh, every one. It was fine!"
"And they cheered a fellow named Fletcher for nearly five minutes," added Sydney. "And--"
"Hear 'em!" Cowan interrupted. From the direction of the yard came a long volley of cheers for Erskine. Dinner was over and the fellows were ready for the celebration; they were warming up.