“I hope so, old man,” spoke the new lad sincerely, and his former joyous spirits seemed to have slipped from him like a garment. Tom felt himself disliking Shambler with a feeling that was akin to hate, and he had to fight hard to keep control of his temper. As it was he murmured under his breath:
“The cad! I wish he’d never come to Randall!”
“Come on, boys, we’ll have to give Frank a hand up,” suggested Holly. “Help him to his room, and we’ll get the Doc to look at him.”
Willing hands assisted Frank along, so that he did not have to bear any weight on his injured foot. Shambler wanted to help, but Tom, Sid and Phil insisted on giving “first aid,” and they were sufficient.
The physician looked grave when he saw the injury, not so much at the nature of the hurt itself, for it was comparatively slight, but he was concerned for what might develop.
“I don’t see how you’re going to do any jumping for the next month,” said the physician, when told that Frank was expected to hold up Randall’s end of the big events.
“Oh, but I’ve got to!” declared the Big Californian. “To paraphrase the old saying, ‘Randall expects every lad to do his duty.’ I’ve got to jump.”
“Then I have to tell you that if you do, you may lame yourself for the rest of your life,” went on the doctor seriously. “Some of the tendons are cut, and unless they heal properly you are liable to tear them loose if you put too much strain on them. You’ve got to be careful.”
Frank groaned, and his chums looked anxious. Holly Cross and Kindlings, who were at the conference, shook their heads.