In an incredibly short time he was dressed, had had his breakfast, and was ready to start off. He went in to say good-by to his brother. Poor Tom was down with an attack of rheumatic fever. He had come home to spend Sunday, after playing a brilliant game against the Orange Athletic Club, and had been taken ill.
"So unfortunate," his mother said, "just before examination."
"Such hard lack," said Bingo, "just before the Yale game."
Tom had not pitched since Freshman year, but he was fielding and batting in splendid form, and his loss would seriously cripple the nine.
But try as he might to get well, the pain and fever clung to him obstinately, and the day of the game found him, with his temperature at 103°, declaring that if he couldn't play some one must see the game for him. His father was away, his mother couldn't leave him, so there was no one but Bingham, who had sadly resigned himself to his fate, when, as we have seen, his mother suddenly reversed her decision, and his world was filled with sunshine again.
"Go to my room in Witherspoon," said Tom—"you know it—and tell Porter I sent you. He'll take you to Ivy to lunch, and down to the game. Be sure and telegraph, for I must hear, and they'll never get the news in this little out-of-the-way place."
"Are you perfectly sure you know the road, dear, and that it will not be too much for you?" asked Mrs. Bradfield, anxiously, as she watched her youngest son examining his tire and fixing his brake. "I do wish the trains made connections."
"I'd ride fifty miles through anything," said Bingham, his eyes glistening, "to see a Yale game. Good-by, mother. Don't worry. I'll surely telegraph, and will be home early to-morrow morning."
"Good-by, dear. Cheer for Tom, and may the orange and black win the day."