“I hardly think there is any cause for alarm,” smiled the doctor. “Any boy may have a turn at feeling indisposed in the midst of apple-time, when every orchard is inviting him to gorge himself. You have not been hurt in practice, have you, Don?”
“Oh, no, sir! not at all,” was the hasty answer.
“And you’re feeling all right now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me look at your tongue.”
Don shamefacedly showed his tongue.
“Slight coat on it,” commented his father. “Stomach a trifle disturbed. I’ll give you something for that before you go to bed. You’ll be all right in the morning. It wouldn’t do for you to fall ill now, with the great game against Highland only four days ahead, would it, my boy?”
“Hardly,” said Don, intensely disgusted with himself.
“Let me see, what position are you to play?” asked the doctor, pursuing the conversation, to the boy’s increasing discomfiture.
“Half-back,” answered Don.