Frank grasped his hand, finding it hot and throbbing.
"You’re sick," he repeated. "You are feverish. Your face is flushed and your eyes are red. I’m afraid you need a doctor, boy."
"Pooh!" scoffed Dick. "I won’t have any old doctor! I won’t be dosed with powders and pills! Don’t you worry about me, Frank, for I’ll come round all right."
"I’m sure you’re in no condition to play this afternoon," declared Merry, in a low tone.
"Oh!" exclaimed the boy almost fiercely. "I will play! Don’t tell me I can’t play, Frank—please don’t. I’m going to play in that game. I wouldn’t miss taking part in it for a thousand dollars!"
Frank was compelled to smile, even though the smile was a grave one.
"You must be reasonable," he said. "If you are not in condition to play, it will hurt the game and hurt you to put you in. Your boundless energy has enabled you to do surprising things in past games, but that will fail you if you’re ill."
"Oh, my energy’s all right," insisted the lad doggedly, adding, in true boyish fashion: "I’ll prove it. See!"
Brad Buckhart was standing thirty feet away, with his hands on his hips, his back toward them, surveying the field. Straight at the Texan Dick Merriwell dashed, to the surprise of Frank, who was not quick enough to restrain him. Frank’s first thought was that Dick meant to tackle the unsuspecting Western youth and fling him down. Instead of doing so, however, Dick leaped like a panther into the air, and sailed fairly over Buckhart’s head.
A shout of surprise went up from all who witnessed this feat, while Buckhart stared, and exclaimed: