Left Guard Gilbert

Don viewed the speaker with some surprise. "Is it?" he asked. "I thought I had rather the best of it, Walton."

Harry smiled and shrugged. "That's only Robey's foxiness. I'm not saying he might not pick you for the place in the end, of course, but I stand just as good a show. Robey doesn't like to show his hand. He likes to keep you guessing. I'm willing to bet that if nothing happened he'd drop you next week and stick me in there. Of course you might get in for awhile in the Claflin game, if I got hurt, but I wouldn't advise you to bank much on that because I'm rather lucky about not getting hurt. Honestly, Gilbert, I don't really think you've got much of a chance of final selection."

Don observed his host's countenance with some bewilderment. "Well," he said at last, "that may be so or not. What is it you want me to do?"

"I'll tell you." Harry tried hard to look ingenuous, but only succeeded in grinning like a catfish. "It's this way. My folks are coming up for the Claflin game; father and mother and kid brother, you know. Well, naturally, I'd like to have them see me play. They think I'm going to, of course, because I've mentioned it once or twice in my letters. I'd feel pretty cheap if they came up here and watched me sitting on the bench all through the game. See what I mean, old man?"

Don nodded and waited.

"Well, so I thought that as your chance is pretty slim anyway maybe you wouldn't mind dropping out. I wouldn't ask you to if I really thought you had much chance, you know, Gilbert."

"Oh! That's it? Well, I'm sorry if you're folks are going to be disappointed, Walton, but I don't feel quite like playing the goat on that account. You might just write them and sort of prepare them for the shock, mightn't you? Tell them there's a bare chance that you won't get into the fracas, you know. I would. It would soften the blow for them, Walton."

Walton scowled. "Don't be funny," he said shortly. "I've given you the chance to drop out gracefully, Gilbert, and you're a fool not to take it."

"But why should I drop out! Don't you suppose I want to play in the Claflin game just as much as you do?"

"Perhaps you do, but you won't play in it any way you figure it. If you don't quit willingly you'll quit the other way. I'm giving you a fair chance, that's all. You've only got to make believe you're sick or play sort of rottenly a couple of times. That will do the trick for you and there won't be any other trouble."

"Say, what are you hinting at?" demanded Don quietly. "What have you got up your sleeve?"

"Plenty, Gilbert. I've got enough up my sleeve to get you fired from school."

There was a moment of silence. Then Don nodded thoughtfully. "So that's it, is it?" he murmured.

"That's it, old man." Harry grinned. "Think it over now."

"What do you think you've got on me?" asked Don.

"I don't think. I know that you and three other fellows helped put out that fire that night and that you didn't get back to hall until long after ten-thirty." Harry dropped his knee, thrust his hands into his pockets, leaned back in his chair and viewed Don triumphantly. "I don't want to go to faculty with it, Gilbert, although it's really my duty and I certainly shall if you force me."

"Hm," mused Don. "But wouldn't faculty wonder why you'd been so long about it?"

"Probably. I'd have to tell the truth and – "

"I guess that would hurt," interpolated the other drily.

"And explain that I'd tried to shield you fellows, but that my conscience had finally prevailed." And Harry grinned broadly. "Josh wouldn't like it, but he wouldn't do anything to me. What he'd do to you, though, would be a plenty, Gilbert. It would be expulsion, and you know that as well as I do."

"Yes, I do." Don dropped his gaze to his hands and was silent a moment. Then: "Of course you've thought of what it would mean to you, Walton? I wouldn't be likely to keep you out of it, you know."

Harry shrugged. "Fellows might talk some, but I'd only be doing my duty. As long as my conscience was clear – "

"You're a dirty pup, Walton," said Don, "and if I wasn't afraid of getting the mange I'd give you the beating you deserve."

"Calling names won't get you anything, Gilbert. I'm not afraid of anything you could do to me, anyway. I may be a pup, but I'm where I can make you sit up and beg, and I'm going to do it."

"You think you are," said Don contemptuously. "Let me tell you now that I'd rather be fired a dozen times than make any bargains with a common skunk like you!"

"That means you want me to go ahead and tell Josh, does it?"

"It means that you can do anything you want to, Walton." Don stood up. "But if you do go to faculty with the story you'll get the worst licking you ever had or heard of, and fellows will make it so unpleasant here for you that you won't stay much longer than I do. Now you think it over!"

"What fellows say or think won't hurt me a mite, thank you, and I'm not afraid of you or any of your friends, Gilbert. Wait a minute now. We're not through yet."

"I am, thanks," replied Don, moving toward the door.

"Oh, no you're not. You may feel heroic and all that and too mad to give in just now, but you're not considering what it will mean if you make me squeal to faculty. Why, we wouldn't have a ghost of a show with Claflin!"

"I thought you considered yourself quite as good a guard as me, Walton," answered Don.

"I do, old man. But I don't think I'm able to take the places of all the other fellows who would be missing from the team."

Don turned, with his hand on the door-knob, and stared startledly. "What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"I thought that would fetch you," chuckled Harry. "I mean that you're not the only one who would quit the dear old school, Gilbert. You haven't forgotten, I suppose, that there were three other fellows mixed up in the business?"

"No, but faculty would have to know more than I'd tell them before they'd find out who the others were."

"Oh, you wouldn't have to tell them, old man."

"Meaning you would? You don't know, Walton."

"Don't I, though? You bet I do! I know every last one of them!"

"You told me – "

"Oh, I let you think I didn't, Gilbert. No use telling everything you know."

"I don't believe it!" But, in spite of the statement, Don did believe it and was trying to realise what it meant.

"Don't be a fool! Why wouldn't I know? If I could see you why couldn't I see Clint Thayer and Tim Otis and Tom Hall? You were all as plain as daylight. Of course, Tom's out of it, anyway, but I guess losing a left tackle and a right half-back a week before the game would put rather a dent in our chances, what? And that's just what will happen if you make me go to Josh with the story!"

"You wouldn't!" challenged Don, but there was scant conviction in his tone. Harry shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, I'd rather not. I don't want to play on a losing team, and that's what I'd be doing, but you see I've sort of set my heart on playing right guard a week from Saturday, Gilbert, and I hate to be disappointed. Hate to disappoint my folks, too."

"They must be proud of you!"

"They are, take it from me." Harry's smile vanished and he looked ugly as he went on. "Don't be a fool, Gilbert! You'd do the same thing yourself if you had the chance. You're playing the hypocrite, and you know it. I've got you dead to rights and I mean to make the most of it. If you don't get off the team inside of two days I'll go to Josh and tell him everything I know. It isn't pretty, maybe, but it's playing your hand for what there is in it, and that's my way! Now you sit down again and just think it all over, Gilbert. Take all the time you want. And remember this, too. If I keep my mouth shut you've got to keep yours shut. No blabbing to Tim Otis or Clint Thayer or anyone else. This is just between you and me, old man. Now what do you say?"

"The thing's as crazy as it is rotten, Walton! How am I to get off the team without having it look funny?"

"And how much do I care whether it looks funny or not? That's up to you. You can play sick or you can get out there and mix your signals a few times or you can bite Robey in the leg. I don't give a hang what you do so long as you do it, and do it between now and Saturday. That's right, sit down and look at it sensibly. Mull it over awhile. There's no hurry."

CHAPTER XVI

DON VISITS THE DOCTOR

"WHAT did Walton want of you?" asked Tim a half-hour later, when the occupants of Number 6 were settled at opposite sides of the table for study.

"Walton?" repeated Don vaguely. "Oh, nothing especial."

"Nothing especial? Then why the mysterious summons? Did he make any crack about that little escapade of ours?"

"He mentioned it. Shut up and let me get to work, Tim."

"Mentioned it how? What did he say? Any chance of beating him up? I've always had a longing, away down deep inside me, Donald, to place my fist violently against some portion of Walton's – er – facial contour. Say, that's good, isn't it? Facial contour's decidedly good, Don."

"Fine," responded the other listlessly.

Tim peered across at him under the droplight. "Say, you look as if you'd lost a dozen dear friends. Anything wrong? Look here, has Walton been acting nasty?"

"Don't be a chump, Tim. I'm all right. Or, anyway, I'm only sort of – sort of tired. Dry up and let me stuff."

"Oh, very well, but you needn't be so haughty about it. I don't want to share your secrets with dear Harry. Everyone to his taste, as the old lady said when she kissed the cow."

Tim's sarcasm, however, brought no response, and presently, after growling a little while he pawed his books over and dropped the subject, to Don's relief, and silence fell. Don made a fine pretence of studying, but most of the time he couldn't have told what book lay before him. When the hour was up Tim, who had by then returned to his usual condition of cheerful good nature, tried to induce Don to go over to Hensey to call on Larry Jones, who, it seemed, had perfected a most novel and marvellous trick with a ruler and two glasses of water. But Don refused to be enticed and Tim went off alone, gravely cautioning his room-mate against melancholia.

"Try to keep your mind off your troubles, Donald. Think of bright and happy things, like me or the pretty birds. Remember that nothing is ever quite as bad as we think it is, that every line has a silver clouding and that – that it's always dawnest before the dark. Farewell, you old grouch!"

Don didn't have to pretend very hard the next day that he was feeling ill, for an almost sleepless night, spent in trying to find some way out of his difficulties, had left him hollow-eyed and pale. Breakfast had been a farce and dinner a mere empty pretence, and between the two meals he had fared illy in classes. It was scarcely more than an exaggeration to tell Coach Robey that he didn't feel well enough to play, and the coach readily believed him and gave him over to the mercies of Danny Moore.

The trainer tried hard to get Don to enumerate some tangible symptoms, but Don could only repeat that he was dreadfully tired and out of sorts. "Eat anything that didn't agree with you?" asked Danny.

"No, I didn't eat much of anything. I didn't have any appetite."

"Sure, that was sensible, anyway. I'll be after giving you a tonic, me boy. Take it like I tell you, do ye mind, keep off your feet and get a good sleep. After breakfast come to me in the gym and I'll have a look at you."

Don took the tonic – when he thought of it – ate a fair supper and went early to bed, not so much in the hope of curing his ailment as because he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. He slept pretty well, but was dimly conscious of waking frequently during the night, and when morning came felt fully as tired as when he had retired. Breakfast was beyond him, although Mr. Robey, his attention drawn to Don by Harry Walton's innocent "You're looking pretty bum, Gilbert," counselled soft boiled eggs and hot milk. Don dallied with the eggs and drank part of the milk and was glad to escape as soon as he could.

Danny gave him a very thorough inspection in the rubbing room after breakfast, but could find nothing wrong. "Sure, you're as sound as Colin Meagher's fiddle, me boy. Where is it it hurts ye?"

"It doesn't hurt anywhere, Danny," responded Don. "I'm all right, I suppose, only I don't feel – don't feel very fit."

"A bit fine, you are, and I'm thinking you'd better lay off the work for today. Be outdoors as much as you can, but don't be tiring yourself out. Have you taken the tonic like I told ye?"

"I've taken enough of the beastly stuff," answered Don listlessly.

Danny laughed. "Sure, it's the fine-tasting medicine, lad. Keep at it. And listen to me, now. If you want to play agin Claflin, Donny, you do as I'm tellin' you and don't be thinkin' you know more about it than I do. Sure, Robey won't look at ye at all, come a week from tomorrow, if you don't brace up."

"Oh, I'm all right, Danny, thanks. Maybe if I rest off today I'll be fine tomorrow."

"That's what I'm tellin' you. See that ye do it."

That afternoon he watched practice from the bench without getting into togs and saw Harry Walton play at left guard. He would much rather have remained away from the field, but to have done so might, he thought, have looked queer. Coach Robey was solicitous about him, but apparently did not take his indisposition very seriously. "'Take it easy, Gilbert," he said, "and don't worry. You'll be all right for tomorrow, I guess. You've been working pretty hard, my boy. Better pull a blanket over your shoulders. This breeze is rather biting. Can't have you laid up for long, you know."

Harry Walton performed well that afternoon, playing with a vim and dash that was something of a revelation to his team-mates. Tim was evidently troubled when he walked back to hall with Don after practice. "For the love of mud, Don," he pleaded, "get over it and come back! Did you see the way Walton played today? If he gets in tomorrow and plays like that against Chambers Robey'll be handing him the place! What the dickens is wrong with you, anyway?"

"I'm just tired," responded Don.

"Tired!" Tim was puzzled. "What for? You haven't worked since day before yesterday. What you've got is malaria or something. Tell you what we'll do, Don; we'll beat it over to the doctor's after supper, eh?"

But Don shook his head. "Danny's tonic is all I need," he said. "I dare say I'll be feeling great in the morning."

"You dare say you will! Don't you feel sure you will? Because I've got to tell you, Donald, that this is a plaguy bad time to get laid off, son. If you're not a regular little Bright Eyes by Monday Robey'll can you as sure as shooting!"

"I wouldn't much care if he did," muttered Don.

"You wouldn't much – Say, are you crazy?" Tim stopped short on the walk and viewed his chum in amazement. "Is it your brain that's gone back on you? Don't you want to play against Claflin?"

"I suppose so. Yes, of course I do, but – "

"Then don't talk like a piece of cheese! You'll come with me to the doctor after supper if I have to drag you there by one heel!"

And so go he did, and the doctor looked at his tongue and felt his pulse and "pawed him over," as Don put it, and ended by patting him on the back and accepting a nice bright half-dollar – half-price to Academy students – in exchange for a prescription.

"You're a little nervous," said the doctor. "Thinking too much about that football game, I guess. Don't do it. Put it out of your mind. Take that medicine every two hours according to directions on the bottle and you'll be all right, my boy."

Don thanked him, slipped the prescription in a pocket and headed for school. But Tim grabbed him and faced him about. "You don't swallow the prescription, Donald," he said. "You take it to a druggist and he gives you something in a bottle. That's what you swallow, the stuff in the bottle. I'm not saying that it mightn't do you just as much good to eat the paper, but we'd better play by the rules. So come on, you lunk-head."

"Oh, I forgot," murmured Don.

"Of course you did," agreed the other sarcastically.

"And, look here, if anyone asks you your name, it's Donald Croft Gilbert. Think you can remember that? Donald Croft – "

"Oh, dry up," said Don. "How much will this fool medicine cost me?"

"How much have you got?"

"About eighty cents, I think."

"It'll cost you eighty cents, then. Ask me something easier. I don't pretend to know how druggists do it, but they can always look right through your clothes and count your money. Never knew it to fail!"

But it failed this time, or else the druggist counted wrong, for the prescription was a dollar and Tim had to make up the balance. He insisted on Don taking the first dose then and there, so that he could get in another before bedtime, and Don meekly obeyed. After he had swallowed it he begged a glass of soda water from the druggist to take the taste out of his mouth, and the druggist, doubtless realising the demands of the occasion, stood treat to them both. On the way back Tim figured it that if they had only insisted on having ice-cream sodas they would have reduced the price of the medicine to its rightful cost. Don, though, firmly insisted that it was worth every cent of what he had paid for it.

"No one," he said convincedly, "could get that much nastiness into a small bottle for less than a dollar!"

CHAPTER XVII

DROPPED FROM THE TEAM

WHETHER owing to Danny Moore's tonic, the doctor's prescription or a good night's rest, Don awoke the next morning feeling perfectly well physically, and his first waking moments were cheered by the knowledge. Then, however, recollection of the fact that physical well-being was exactly what wasn't required under the circumstances brought quick reaction, and he jumped out of bed to look at himself in the mirror above his dresser in the hope of finding pale cheeks and hollow eyes and similar evidences of impending dissolution. But Fate had played a sorry trick on him! His cheeks were not in the least pale, nor were his eyes sunken. In short, he looked particularly healthy, and if other evidence of the fact was needed it was supplied by Tim. Tim, when Don turned regretfully away from the glass, was sitting up and observing him with pleased relief.

"Ata boy!" exclaimed Tim. "Feeling fine and dandy, aren't you? I guess that medicine was cheap at the price, after all! You look about a hundred per cent better than you did yesterday, Donald."

Don started to smile, caught himself in time and drew a long sigh. "You can't always tell by a fellow's looks how he's really feeling," he replied darkly.

"Oh, run away and play! What's the matter with you? You've got colour in your face and look great."

"Too much colour, I'm afraid," said Don, shaking his head pessimistically. "I guess – I guess I've got a little fever."

Tim stared at him puzzledly. "Fever? What for? I mean – Say, are you fooling?"

"No. My face is sort of hot, honest, Tim." And so it was, possibly the consciousness of fibbing and the difficulty of doing it successfully was responsible for the flush. Tim pushed his legs out of bed and viewed his friend disgustedly.

"Don, you're getting to be one of those kleptomaniacs – no, that isn't it! What's the word? Hydrochondriacs, isn't it? Anyway, whatever it is, you're it! You've got so you imagine you're sick when you aren't. Forget it, Donald, and cheer up!"

"Oh, I'll be all right, thanks," responded the other dolefully. "I guess I'm lots better than I was."

"Of course you are! Why, hang it, man, you've simply got to be O. K. today! If you're not Robey'll can you as sure as shooting! Smile for the gentleman, Don, and then get a move on and come to breakfast."

"I don't think I want any breakfast, thanks."

"You will when you smell it. Want me to start the water for you?"

"If I was a hydrochondriac I wouldn't want any water, would I?"

"Hypochondriac's what I meant, I guess. Hurry up before the mob gets there."

Tim struggled into his bath-robe and pattered off down the corridor, leaving Don to follow at his leisure. But, instead of following, Don seated himself on the edge of his bed and viewed life gloomily. If Tim refused to believe in his illness, how was he to convince Coach Robey of it? He might, he reflected, rub talcum on his face, but he was afraid that wouldn't deceive anyone, the coach least of all. And, according to his bargain with Harry Walton, he must sever his connection with the team today. If he didn't Walton would go to the principal and tell what he had witnessed from his window that Saturday night, and not only he, but Tim and Clint as well, would suffer. And, still worse, the team would be beaten by Claflin as surely as – as Tim was shouting to him from the bathroom! He got up and donned his bath-robe and set off down the corridor with lagging feet, so wretched in mind by this time that it required no great effort of imagination to believe himself ailing in body.

To his surprise – and rather to his disgust – he found himself intensely hungry at breakfast and it was all he could do to refuse the steak and baked potato set before him. Under the appraising eye of Mr. Robey, he drank a glass of milk and nibbled at a piece of toast, his very soul longing for that steak and a couple of soft eggs! Afterward, when he reported to Danny, the trainer produced fresh discouragement in him.

"Fine, me boy!" declared the trainer. "You're as good as ever, aren't you? Keep in the air all you can and go light with the dinner."

"I – I don't feel very fit," muttered Don.

"Get along with you! You're the picture of health! Don't be saying anything like that to Mr. Robey, or he might believe it and bench you. Run along now and mind what I tell you. Game's at two-fifteen today."

It was fortunate that Don had but two recitations that morning, for he was in no condition for such unimportant things. His mind was too full of what was before him. At dinner it was easy enough to obey Danny's command and eat lightly, for he was far too worried to want food. The noon meal was eaten early in order that the players might have an hour for digestion before they went to the field. Chambers came swinging up to the school at half-past one, in all the carriages to be found at the station, while her supporters trailed after on foot. The stands filled early and, by the time the Chambers warriors trotted on to the gridiron for their practice, looked gay and colourful with waving pennants.

Don kept close to Tim from the time dinner was over until they reached the locker-room in the gymnasium. Tim was puzzled and disgusted over his chum's behaviour and secretly began to think that perhaps, after all, he was not in the condition his appearance told him to be. Don listlessly dragged his playing togs on and was dressed by the time Coach Robey came in. He hoped that the coach would give him his opportunity then to declare his unfitness for work, but Mr. Robey paid no attention to him. He said the usual few words of admonition to the players, conferred with Manager Morton and the trainer and disappeared again. Captain Edwards led the way out of the building at a few minutes before two and they jogged down to the field and, heralded by a long cheer from the stand, took their places on the benches. It was a fine day for football, bright and windless and with a true November nip in the air.

Chambers yielded half the gridiron and Coach Robey approached the bench. "All right, first and second squads," he said cheerfully. "Try your signals out, but take it easy. Rollins, you'd better try a half-dozen goals. Martin, too. How about you, Gilbert? You feeling all right?"

Don felt the colour seeping out of his cheeks as the coach turned toward him, and there was an instant of silence before he replied with lowered eyes.

"N-no, sir, I'm not feeling very – very fit. I'm sorry."

"You're not?" Mr. Robey's voice had an edge. "Danny says you're perfectly fit. What's wrong?"

"I – I don't know, sir. I don't feel – well."

A number of the players still within hearing turned to listen. Mr. Robey viewed Don with a puzzled frown. Then he shrugged impatiently.

"You know best, of course," he said shortly, "but if you don't work today, Gilbert, you're plumb out of it. I can't keep your place open for you forever, you know. What do you say? Want to try it?"