had previously done in practice that season.
"I guess we'll come out all right," spoke Kindlings, gleefully, to the coach, as they walked from the field, discussing some new plays that had been tried.
"I'm more hopeful," answered Mr. Lighton.
A hot bath, a rub down and a vigorous massaging of his ankle with liniment, made Phil feel much better, and that night, propped up in an easy position on the sofa—the seat of honor—the quarter-back received his friends, several of whom dropped in to inquire after him.
Will you be fit, old man?" asked Holly Cross, anxiously. "I hear that Fairview has it in for us for keeps."
"Sure I'll be on hand," declared Phil, gamely. "This isn't anything."
"I hope not," remarked Kindlings, with a dubious shake of his head. "We can tell better in the morning." For he well knew that such injuries as Phil's often became worse in a few hours than they seemed at first.
The captain's apprehension was realized, for the next morning Phil could not step on his foot, and Dr. Marshall, the college physician, was summoned.
The doctor looked at the swollen ankle, felt of it gently, thereby causing Phil to wince with pain, and then announced:
