A ball was used, and the passes and formations made on the signals. When anything went wrong, Frank kept them repeating the attempt till they got it right.
Dick filled his regular position as half-back, and seemed trying to prove to his brother that he was all right. But before the practise was over something happened. Several times Dick had fumbled the ball, adding to Merry’s anxiety, for, as a rule, the boy was rather clever in handling any kind of a pass. The ball was sent back to Dick, and, with it clasped under his arm, he started to spring forward to go through the center. He did not take two steps when he suddenly staggered, dropped the ball, and fell to the ground.
In a moment Brad Buckhart was kneeling beside him and had lifted his head. Dick’s eyes were closed, and now his face was white and almost ghastly.
"Bust my broncos!" blurted Brad. "Something wrong with him! He went down like a cow with a rope round her horns. Bring water quick, somebody!"
Water was brought, and Dick’s temples were wet, while a little was forced between his lips. Frank was at work over him when the boy drew a deep breath and muttered:
"I’m not sick! Going to play! Will play! Tell you I will play!"
Frank was pale, for he was troubled by a suspicion that filled him with untold anger.
Was it possible Dick had been drugged in some manner by some dastardly enemy at the academy?
There was a department in the academy known as "The Hospital," and thither Dick Merriwell was carried. He revived while they were taking him there, finding the arm of his brother about him.
"What’s the matter?" he asked bewilderedly. "Something black came before my eyes, and then the ground seemed to come up and strike me."