“Good-morning,” he said.  The little man on the box looked up inquiringly but failed to recognize his tormentor.

“Mornin’,” he grunted suspiciously.

“I wanted to tell you,” said Neil gravely, “that your diagnosis was correct, after all.”

“Hey?” asked the little man querulously.

“Yes, it was a cold-chisel that did it,” said Neil.  “You remember you said it was.”

“Cold-chisel?  Say, what you talkin’—­” Then a light of recognition sprang into his weazened features.  “You’re the feller that owes me a quarter!” he cried shrilly, scrambling to his feet.

Neil was off on the instant.  As the three went on toward the station the little man’s denunciations followed them: 

“You come back here an’ pay me that quarter!  If I knew yer name I’d have ther law on yer!  But I know yer face, an’ I’ll—­”

“His name’s Legion,” called Ted Foster over his shoulder.

“Hey?  What?” shrieked the repair man.

“Legion!”

“I don’t know what you say, but I’ll report that feller ter th’ authorities!”

Then a long whistle broke in upon the discussion, and the three rushed for the station platform.

From the vantage-point of a baggage-truck they watched the Robinson players and the accompanying contingent descend from the train.  There were twenty-eight of the former, heavily built, strapping-looking fellows, and with them a small army of coaches, trainers, and supporters.  Neil dug his elbow against Paul.

“Look,” he said, “there’s your friend Brill.”

And sure enough, there was the Robinson coach who had visited the two at Hillton a year before and tried to get them to go to the rival college.

“If you’d like to make arrangements for next year, Paul,” Neil whispered mischievously, “now’s your time.”

But Paul grinned and shook his head.

The players and most of the coaches tumbled into carriages and were taken out to Erskine Field for a short practise, and the balance of the arrivals started on foot toward the hotel.  The three friends retraced their steps.  Luckily, the proprietor of the bicycle repair-shop was so busy looking over the strangers that they passed unseen in the little stream.  There remained the better part of an hour before lunch-time, and they found themselves at a loss for a way to spend the time.  Foster finally went off to his room, as he explained airily, “to dash off a letter on his typewriter,” a statement that was greeted with howls of derision from the others, who, for want of a better place, went into Butler’s bookstore and aimlessly looked over the magazines and papers.

It was while thus engaged that Paul heard his name spoken, and turned to find Mr. Brill smilingly holding out his hand.

“I thought I wasn’t mistaken,” the Robinson coach said as they shook hands.  “And isn’t that your friend Fletcher over there?”