Beneath the dark old wharf the water whispered and gurgled around the rotting, barnacle-covered spiles. The sound of retreating footsteps died out overhead.
CHAPTER XV.
DICK’S STRANGE ILLNESS.
Dick Merriwell was ill. He had awakened with a throbbing headache and burning flesh. During the remainder of the night there had been little sleep for him, though he tried not to disturb Douglass.
In the morning Dick had risen, uttering no word of complaint, although he was weak and it required a mighty effort for him to get up at all.
The keen eyes of Douglass had discovered that something was wrong, and he asked Dick if he felt sick. Dick had answered that he was feeling somewhat "off," but reckoned he would be all right after a bit.
And so he took his morning shower, believing that would set him right. He was unable to eat any breakfast, but still he would not give up and admit himself ill.
Prank Merriwell had appointed a time that forenoon to go through certain signal-practise with the team, wishing to make sure the players thoroughly understood the signals calling for the new formations he had planned.
It was precisely ten o’clock when the eleven went onto the field, finding their coach waiting for them Frank’s keen eyes scanned the men, to see if they appeared in condition. He smiled a bit as he noted their clear eyes and healthy complexions—smiled till his eyes rested on Dick. Then that smile disappeared, and a moment later he was speaking to his brother.
"You’re sick, Dick," he said positively.
"Oh, I’m feeling a little rocky, that’s all," was the assertion of the boy. "That will be all right."