“Talk about pluck!” exclaimed Holly Cross. “If that isn’t the best exhibition of it, I never want to hear of any.”
“Pluck!” murmured Bricktop Molloy. “He’s pluck personified. Poor Phil!” and the big left-guard turned aside. Slowly Phil’s mates watched him making his way to where his sister sat. The gridiron was swarming with spectators now. Bean Perkins came running over.
“We’ll have a great celebration to-night!” he cried to the players and the substitutes.
“No!” said Holly Cross simply.
“Why not?”
“Because Phil’s mother is dying. He’s got to go to her.”
Up the grandstand leaped Phil. Tom had hurried after him, ready to do what he could to aid his chum to get a train. Phil saw Ruth and Madge together. At the sight of her brother Ruth cried:
“Oh, Phil, wasn’t it glorious? I’m so glad you won! Why—wh—what’s the matter?” she gasped at the sight of his pale face.
“Mother!” he exclaimed huskily. “Didn’t—haven’t you a telegram?”
“Yes. Did you get one, too?” and she fumbled in her muff. “Oh, Phil, I’m so happy! She’s all better! The operation was a success, and she’s going to get well! I got mine just before the game, and I supposed you did, too. I was waiting for you to come to me, but I guess you didn’t have a chance. Oh, I’m so glad!” and she threw her arms around her brother’s neck.