“Don’t see what good that’ll do if I can’t play,” objected the other dejectedly.
“It’ll do some good, Morris. We’ll have to change our plans for the Springdale game, but we needn’t let Springdale know we’ve changed them. See?”
“Oh!” muttered Morris thoughtfully.
“Now, when you get home you telephone for the doctor at once and get his verdict. But swear him to secrecy, Morris, and swear everyone of your folks to secrecy too. Then call me up and tell me what he says. No, don’t say anything over the ’phone but ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ If you say ‘no’ I’ll know you can’t play. But don’t let a soul hear about it. If you can hobble out on Monday I’ll come for you in the car. I want the paper to report you at practice. I want Springdale to keep right on thinking that we’re banking on you for field-goals, Morris. I’m not going to lie about it, but I’m certainly not going to put anyone wise. See what I mean?”
“Yes, I see what you mean, all right. But—but, hang it, Dick, it doesn’t do me any good!”
“It’ll do you a lot of good if you see us win from Springdale instead of lose to her two weeks from to-day,” replied Dick. “It’s the one way, I guess, in which you can help us to win now, Morris. Remember that.”
“All right, Dick. Anyway, maybe it won’t be as bad as we think. Maybe if I keep out of it a few days I’ll be all right.”
“We’ll see,” said the other. “Now I’ll give you an arm into the house. Stay where you are till I get out.” Dick looked cautiously about and was relieved to find the street deserted. “All right now. Put your arm over my shoulders. That’s the ticket! Hurt much?”
“Not—not much,” answered Morris from between clenched teeth.
Three-quarters of an hour later Dick left the supper table to answer the telephone.