“Put some coats under him,” ordered the coach. “Shall we carry you inside, Phil?”
“No; don’t move me. Is my arm broken?”
“No; only a dislocation, I guess. You’ll be all right in a few days.”
“Soon enough to play against Boxer Hall, I hope,” said Phil with a faint smile.
“Of course,” declared the coach heartily. “We’ll delay the game if necessary.”
“Here comes Dr. Marshall,” called Ed Kerr, as the college physician was seen hurrying across the campus, with the Jersey twins trailing along behind.
The doctor, after a brief examination, pronounced it a bad dislocation, but then and there, with the help of the captain and coach, he reduced it, though the pain, as the bone snapped into place, made Phil sick and faint. Then they helped him to his room, where he was soon visited by scores of students, for the quarter-back was a general favorite.
“Now I think I will have to establish a quarantine,” declared Dr. Marshall, when about fifty lads had been in to see how the patient was progressing. “I don’t want you to get a fever from excitement, Clinton. If you expect to get into the game again inside of two weeks, you must keep quiet.”
“Two weeks!” cried Phil. “If I have to stay out as long as that I’ll be so out of form that I’ll be no good.”