“You’ll have to get more pep than that unless we want to be licked tonight,” Brad said, passing him the ball. “Say, what’s the matter with you anyhow?”
“I feel awful,” Chips admitted in a weak voice. “Sort of sickish all over.”
“Look at his face!” Dan directed.
Chips’ cheeks and forehead were flushed. Even more alarming, the back of his neck was blotched with little red spots.
“I itch too,” Chips said miserably.
The Cubs who had clustered about him, backed hastily away.
“O’my gosh,” Brad groaned. “You’re coming down with something, for sure. Get home as fast as you can, Chips, and into bed! Have your mother call a doctor.”
“What about the game?”
“Let us worry about that. You beat it home.”
Within an hour, the Cubs knew the worst. Chips had a mild case of the measles! He would be out of the game and confined to his home for more than a week.