The field was slowly being cleared of stragglers. The newspaper reporters were getting their paper and pencils ready, and photographers, with their big box-cameras, were snapping individual players as a sort of practice for catching lightning-like plays later on.
Across the field, toward the group of Randall players, came a lad. He walked as if undecided as to his errand.
“Get back,” warned Holly Cross.
“I’ve got a message for a feller named Clinton!” cried the lad.
“There he is over there,” and Holly, who was in conversation with the coach, pointed at Phil. The latter started as he took the envelope from the messenger.
“Who—who gave you this?” asked the quarter-back huskily.
“Feller outside. Give me a half a dollar fer bringin’ it in. Any answer?”
“Wait,” replied Phil. His bronze face was strangely white as he tore the envelope and hastily read the few words on the paper within. He seemed to sway, but, with a catch of his breath, he recovered his composure. He read the message again. A mist seemed to come before his eyes. He murmured to himself: “I mustn’t tell them—until after the game—I—I must play the game out. But—but can I?” He clenched his hands, and his jaw became more square with the force of his teeth closing tightly together.
“Any answer?” asked the lad.