Laughlin and Wolcott said nothing. The former was cudgelling his brains to discover some new point of attack; the latter, convinced that the final decision had been made, sat dumb and hopeless, crushed by the weight of disappointment. At that moment nothing in the world seemed so wholly desirable as the privilege of playing in the Hillbury game, and no fellows so wholly enviable as those whose parents were undisturbed by anxieties as to broken joints and twisted sinews. He was roused from his fit of sullen brooding by Poole’s voice.
“Read it again, Wolcott,” commanded Phil, who was standing erect before his chair, his face bright with a new idea. “Read it again, or at least that part where he speaks of other competent judges.”
Wolcott found the place and reread the latter portion of the letter.
“Will he stand by what he says there, that if one of them will say you risk little or nothing, he’ll withdraw his objection?” demanded Poole.
“Of course he will!” returned Wolcott, hotly. “What kind of a man do you take him for?”
“Do you know any of these doctors?” continued Poole, paying no attention either to the indignant question or to the offended tone.
Wolcott shook his head sadly. “Only old Dr. Rawson who lives near us. He set my collar-bone five years ago, when I broke it falling down the front steps.”
“I’m surprised your father let you go down such a dangerous place,” remarked Ware. “I suppose he made you avoid danger after that by coming in the back way.”
“Shut up, Dan, I’m doing the talking now,” ordered Poole, wheeling quickly upon the interrupter. Then, turning to Wolcott again, he added, “Dr. Rawson would be likely to help you out, wouldn’t he?”
Wolcott made no reply unless the melancholy smile that appeared on his face at the suggestion of help from Dr. Rawson could be considered an answer.