"No playing for you, Clinton."
"But I've got to play, doctor. I've got to be in the game against Fairview Saturday. That's three days off. Won't it be well then?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Well enough to play if I wear a leather protector?"
"If you play, you may be out of the game the rest of the season," was the solemn answer. "I must forbid it. You may do yourself serious injury. What you need is complete rest."
Phil gasped, and held back the exclamation that sprang to his lips—an exclamation partly of bitterness and partly of pain, for the physician was rebandaging the foot. Then he turned his face to the wall, and when the doctor was gone, Tom and Sid sat in silent communion with their chum. For they knew how he felt, and knew that mere words could only make the wounded spirit more sore. Silence was the best balm, and silence there was, with only the fussy clock to mark the passage of the seconds.
Phil's ankle was even worse the next day, and it was announced that he would not be in the Fairview game, which news cast a gloom over Randall, and caused rejoicing in the camp of their rivals, for Fairview was none too sure of a victory, though they had a fine eleven. Benson, the substitute quarter, was slated for the contest.
