“Why, you’ve got a fever!” he exclaimed “I’m going to call for Dr. Marshall.”
Wallops was sent for the physician, who pronounced Sid a very sick youth, and ordered his removal to the sick ward, a sort of emergency hospital maintained at Randall.
“I shouldn’t be surprised but what it was the ginger ale,” said the physician, after questioning Sid. “You have a very bad bilious attack.”
“Will I—will I be all right by morning?”
“By morning? Gracious, young man, what do you think we doctors are, magicians? We have to wait for Nature to help us.”
“Then I can’t play.”
“Play? I should say not! You’ve got to stay in bed.”
“Well, wouldn’t that get your goat!” exclaimed Tom, when he heard the news. “Phil and Sid both out of the game. Now we are up against it, for further orders.”
Phil did not answer, but he gritted his teeth, and in the darkness stepped out of bed, bearing his weight on his injured ankle. He could hardly keep back an exclamation of agony, as a sharp pain shot through him, and he knew that what he had hoped for—that he might possibly play—was out of the question.
The day dawned cold and fair, ideal weather for football, with no wind to make kicking difficult. The contest was to take place at Randall, and the squad was out early at practice. It was rather a serious gridiron squad, too, for the absence of two of the best players crippled the team in a manner that none cared to think about.