“Going to get well? Operation a success? Why, I—I didn’t get a telegram like that!” exclaimed Phil in bewilderment.
“There’s mine,” said Ruth, producing it. “I left word to forward any that might come to Fairview to me here. I gave the number of my seat here to the Fairview operator, and I got the message just before play began. But didn’t you get yours?”
Before Phil could answer a diminutive messenger boy pushed his way through the crowd.
“Is dis Phil Clinton?” he asked boldly.
“That’s me,” replied Phil quickly, but he hardly knew what he said.
“Den here’s a message fer youse. I tried t’ git it t’ youse before de game, but de cop wouldn’t let me in on de grass. So I stayed and seen de scrap. Hully chee! But it was a peach! I’m glad youse fellers won. Sign dere!” and the lad held out his book with the message in.
As in a dream Phil signed, and then tore open the envelope. The message was a duplicate of the one his sister had.
“Any answer?” asked the lad, as he gazed in admiration at Phil, and Tom, who stood close beside him. “Hully chee! But youse is husky brutes,” spoke the modern Mercury, but it was only his way of properly admiring the football heroes.
“Yes, there’s an answer,” said Phil, and he scribbled on a piece of paper a bystander thrust into his hand this telegram: