“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He was afraid your spine had been injured.”
Chester turned still paler.
“My spine?” he whispered, a look of horror on his face. “Why, if that should be, I might become a helpless cripple.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s anything like that!” cried the girl, regretting that she had spoken so plainly. “I am sure it isn’t.”
He lay still and stared up at the ceiling.
“A cripple!” came huskily from his lips. “What a terrible thing! And that fellow still strong and well! Nothing ever happens to him. Why is it? It’s his luck—his luck!”
June knew he was thinking of Dick Merriwell, and she thought how nearly Dick had been knocked out of the game that day, how she had rushed to him as he lay on the field, and how she had given him the little locket as a “charm” to keep away misfortune in the future.
“What made you do it, June?” whined the lad on the bed, and she started as she realized he was thinking of the same thing. “It was a shame—a disgrace!”