And they were given not once, but thrice.  And then the scrub lustily cheered the varsity, and they both cheered Mills and Devoe and Simson and all the coaches one after another.  And when the last long-drawn “Erskine” had died away Mills faced them again.

“There’s one more cheer I want to hear, fellows, and I think you’ll give it heartily.  In to-morrow’s game we are going to use a form of defense that will, I believe, enable us to at least render a good account of ourselves.  And, as most of you know, this defense was thought out and developed by a fellow who, although unfortunately unable to play the game himself, is nevertheless one of the finest football men in college.  If we win to-morrow a great big share of the credit will be due to that man; if we lose he still will have done as much as any two of us.  Fellows, I ask for three cheers for Burr!”

Mills led that cheer himself and it was a good one.  The pity of it was that Sydney wasn’t there to hear it.

The November twilight was already stealing down over the campus when Neil and Paul left the gymnasium and made their way back to Curtis’s.  Paul was highly elated, for until the line-up had been read he had been uncertain of his fate.  But his joy was somewhat dampened by the fact that Neil had failed to make the team.

“It doesn’t seem just right for me to go into the game, chum, with you on the side-line,” he said.  “I don’t see what Mills is thinking of!  Who in thunder’s to kick for us?”

“I guess you’ll be called on, Paul, if any field-goals are needed.”

“I suppose so, but—­hang it, Neil, I wish you were going to play!”

“Well, so do I,” answered Neil calmly; “but I’m not, and so that settles it.  After all, they couldn’t do anything else, Paul, but let me out.  I’ve been playing perfectly rotten lately.”

“But—­but what’s the matter?  You don’t look stale, chum.”

“I feel stale, just the same,” answered Neil far from untruthfully.

“But maybe you’ll get in for a while; you’re down with the subs,” said Paul hopefully.

“Maybe I will.  Maybe you’ll get killed and Gillam’ll get killed and a few more’ll get killed and they’ll take me on.  But don’t you worry about me; I’m all right.”

Paul looked at him as though rather puzzled.

“By Jove, I don’t believe you care very much whether you play or don’t,” he said at last.  “If it had been me they’d let out I’d simply gone off into a dark corner and died.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t you,” answered Neil heartily.

“Thunder!  So’m I!”