“I know,” said Phil simply. “But you can do lots of things when you try hard. I’m going to do this. I’ll hold myself in readiness to jump down to Palm Beach when I get the word, but until then I’m going to stick by the team.”
There was a look on Phil’s face that Tom had never seen there before. It was as if some inner power was urging him along the difficult path that lay before him. He seemed to be drawing on a hidden reserve supply of grit and pluck, and, as he passed up the stairs, with an easy, swaying motion of his athletic body, Tom could not help but admiring his good-looking, well-formed chum.
“I—I hope nothing happens to take him away before we play our last game,” whispered the ’varsity pitcher. “He’s the best quarter Randall ever had, if what the old-timers say is true. If we don’t win the championship I’ll miss my guess.”
He kept on up the stairs after Phil. In the corridor stood Ford Fenton. Phil nodded at him, but did not feel like speaking. His fingers were clasped around the telegram in his pocket.
“Hello!” cried Fenton. “I saw you at practice. That’s a dandy trick you worked, Phil. My uncle says that——”
“Ford,” began Tom gravely, “have you ever had smallpox?”
“Smallpox? My good gracious, no! You don’t mean to say that there’s a case of it here?”
“We haven’t been exposed to smallpox,” went on Tom, “but we are both suffering from a severe attack of Uncleitis, so if you don’t want to catch it you’d better keep away from us.”
“Hu! I guess you think that’s a joke!” exclaimed Ford as he turned and walked away. Then Tom and Phil entered their room.
Something in the look of their faces attracted the attention of Sid.