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 sophomore 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 Cheshire 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 class 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.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing be blowed, my boy.  Murdoch’s limping to beat the band.”

“Oh!” grinned South.  “That was afterward; he got mixed up with my stick, and, I fear, hurt his shins.”

“Well,” said Neil, when the laughter was over, “football seems deadly enough, but I begin to think it’s a parlor game for rainy evenings alongside of lacrosse.”

“There won’t be many fellows left for the Robinson game,” said Sydney, “if they keep on getting hurt.”

“That’s so,” Livingston concurred.  “Fletcher, White, Jewell, Brown, Stowell—­who else?”