a conclusion at the same instant.

At the door of the dressing-room a strong odor of witch-hazel and
liniment met him. He squeezed his way past a group of coaches and looked
about him. Confusion reigned supreme. Rubbers and trainer were hard at
work. Simson's voice, commanding, threatening, was raised above all
others, a shrill, imperious note in a rising and falling babel of sound.
Veterans of the first half and substitutes chaffed each other
mercilessly. Browning, with an upper lip for all the world like a piece
of raw beef, mumbled good-natured retorts to the charges brought against
him by Reardon, the substitute quarter-back.

[Illustration: Erskine vs. Robinson--The First Half.]

"Yes, you really ought to be careful," the latter was saying with
apparent concern. "If you let those chaps throw you around like that
you may get bruised or broken. I'll speak to Price and ask him to be
more easy with you."

"Mmbuble blubble mummum," observed Browning.

"Oh, don't say that," Reardon entreated.

Neil was looking for Paul, and presently he discovered him. He was lying
on his back while a rubber was pommeling his neck and shoulders
violently and apparently trying to drown him in witch-hazel. He caught
sight of Neil and winked one highly discolored eye. Neil examined him
gravely; Paul grinned.

"There's a square inch just under your left ear, Paul, that doesn't
appear to have been hit. How does that happen?"

Paul grinned more generously, although the effort evidently pained him.

"It's very careless of them, I must say," Neil went on sternly. "See
that it is attended to in the next half."

"Don't worry," answered Paul, "it will be." Neil smiled.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Fine," Paul replied. "I'm just getting limbered up."

"You look it," said Neil dryly. "I suppose by the time your silly neck
is broken you'll be in pretty good shape to play ball, eh?" Simson
hurried up, closely followed by Mills.

"How's the neck?" he asked.

"It's all right now," answered Paul. "It felt as though it had been
driven into my body for about a yard."

"Do you think you can start the next half?" asked Mills anxiously.

"Sure; I can play it through; I'm all right now," replied Paul gaily.
Mills's face cleared.

"Good boy!" he muttered, and turned away. Neil sped after him.

"Mr. Mills," he called. The head coach turned, annoyed by the
interruption.

"Well, Fletcher; what is it?"

"Can't I get in for a while,