Tom and Phil roomed together, and at midnight Tom, who had just fallen into a doze, after envying the sound slumber of his chum, was awakened by the latter.
“I’m sick, Tom,” said Phil faintly.
“What’s the matter, old man?” asked the left-end anxiously, and he jumped out of bed, turning on the electric light.
“I don’t know, but I’m dizzy, and I feel—well, rotten, to put it mildly.”
“That’s too bad. Can I get you anything?”
“Better call Mr. Lighton. I don’t want to take a lot of dope unless he says so.”
Tom quickly dressed and called the coach, who was on the same floor where all the football players had their rooms. He came in quickly, and after one glance at Phil insisted on calling the hotel physician. The doctor went through the usual procedure, and left some medicine for Phil.
“What is it?” asked the coach of the physician.
“Nothing, only his stomach is a little upset. Change of diet and water will sometimes do it. He’ll be all right in the morning.”
Phil was better the next day, but when he went out to practice with the lads, there was a lassitude in his movements, and a lack of snap in his manner of running the team, that made several open their eyes. Mr. Lighton said nothing, but Tom whispered to his chum to “brace up.” Phil tried to, and managed to get through the practice with some return of his former vim. He went to bed early that night, and slept soundly—too heavily, Tom thought, as it might indicate fever.