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 pass again," answered Foster. "Maybe they hadn't discovered it--whatever it is--then; maybe--"
"Listen!" said Neil.