While Mr. Morton went to work the other members of the team crowded about, anxiety written on all their faces.
"Does it hurt more when I press?" asked the submaster keenly. "Ah, I thought so! Prescott, you're not badly hurt for anything else; but your knee is in no shape to play this afternoon!"
A wail of dismay went up from the team members. The rueful look in Dick's face deepened.
"I was afraid you'd bar me out," he confessed. "I never felt so ashamed in my life."
"It wouldn't be of any use for you to play, for that knee wouldn't stand it in any rough smash," declared the coach, shaking his head solemnly.
"It's all off with us, then," groaned one of the fellows. "We may as well ask Hallam if they'll allow us to hand 'em a score of six to nothing on a platter, and then stay off the field."
"Hush your croaking, will you?" demanded Dave Darrin angrily, glaring about him. "Is that the Gridley way? Do we ever admit defeat? Whoever croaks had better quit the team altogether."
Under that rebuke the boy who had ventured the opinion shrank back abashed.
"You're sure I'll be in no shape to go on, Coach?" asked Dick anxiously.
"Why, of course you could go on," replied Mr. Morton. "And you could run about some, too, unless your knee got a good deal stiffer. But you wouldn't be up to Gridley form."