"I'm much obliged to you, old fellow, for putting me wise, although I'm ashamed that I didn't tumble to the fact myself. I hope we can win this game now; we must win it somehow. Grant is knocked out for some time to come, and there's only Hooker left to depend on. If anything happens to Hook, it's all off; there's no one to take his place."
Suddenly Phil understood what Roger was driving at, and his pale face flamed with color. "If I can——" he began eagerly, and then stopped, choking a bit.
"I thought so!" exclaimed Roger, with great satisfaction; "I thought you must be still loyal and true. I've got to pay close attention to the run of the game. Won't you find Grant and ask him to let you have his suit? Get into it as soon as you can, and hurry back here; for Wyndham is liable to solve Hook's delivery any minute. Hustle, old chap—do."
With this admonition, he turned to give his attention to his players.
"Still loyal and true!" muttered Phil. "If he only knew the truth! Well, I suppose he'll find out before long, for Rackliff will blow on me. I'll have to face it, that's all. I wonder wh-where Grant is."
A few moments later he found the fellow he was seeking, the doctor having just finished bandaging Rod's injured fingers. Springer hesitated, feeling that it was almost impossible for him to approach the Texan, and, as he was wavering, Grant, still wearing his playing suit, started for the Oakdale bench.
"I—I bub-beg your pardon," stammered Phil as Rodney was passing.
"Oh!" exclaimed the young Texan, stopping short. "Is it you—Phil? What's the matter?"
"I—want—your—suit." Springer could not meet Rod's eyes, and he could feel his cheeks burning; for over him had swept a full and complete understanding of his own folly in permitting jealousy to lead him into the course he had been pursuing.
"My—my suit?" said Rod, as if he did not quite understand. "You——"