"Nonsense! Grin and bear it. Think what it would mean if you were lost to the team!"
"Oh, dry up," grumbled Clint. "How did you get on with your silly tennis today?"
"All right. We'll finish up tomorrow, I guess. I play Kennard in the morning. He's a snap."
"Why don't you pick out someone who can play? Don't win the tournament too easily, Amy. They'll get onto you."
"That's so, but I can't afford to take any chances. There you are! Now you're all right. Up, Guards, and at them!"
"I'm not a guard; I'm a tackle," corrected Clint as he experimentally bent his knee up and down. "It does feel better, Amy. Thanks."
"Of course it does. I'm a fine little massewer. Let's go and eat."
But the next morning that knee was stiff and painful and although Amy again administered to it, it was all Clint could do to hobble to Wendell for breakfast. "Boots" sternly demanded an immediate examination and an hour later Clint was bandaged about his knee like a mummy and told to keep away from practice for several days and not to use his leg more than he had to. He limped out of the Physical Director's room in the gymnasium with the aid of a cane which Mr. Conklin had donated and with a dark scowl on his face.
"Of all the mean luck!" he muttered disgustedly. "Just when I was going well, too! Now, I suppose, Robbins will get my place, hang him! Bet you this settles me for the rest of the season!"