CHAPTER XXV

PHIL GIVES UP

Out on the athletic ground Grasshopper Backus was practicing the standing broad jump. It was one of the things he was always at, whence his nickname. But, as Holly Cross used to say, "Grasshopper had about as much chance of making the track team as he had of making a perfect score at tennis," a game which the big lad abhorred. For, though Grasshopper was very fond of jumping and practiced it every time he got a chance, there was something wrong with his method, and he never could get beyond the preliminaries in a contest. Still, he kept at it.

"Why don't you give up?" asked Phil, who, with Tom and Sid, strolled down where the lone student was leaping away as if the championship of the college depended on it.

"Say, you let me alone," objected Grasshopper, as he prepared for a jump. "I beat my own record a while ago."

"By how much?" asked Phil.

"Well, not much; a quarter of an inch, but that shows I'm improving."

"Yes; at that rate you'll be through college, and a post graduate like Bricktop before you make enough gain to count," declared Tom.

"Oh, you let me alone!" exclaimed the exasperated one. With that he jumped, and then, with a measuring tape, he carefully noted the distance he had covered.

"Any gain?" asked Sid.

"No; I went back an inch then," was the reply.

"Like the frog in the well," went on Phil. "He jumped up three feet every day, and fell back four feet every night."

"Aw, quit!" begged Grasshopper, who was sensitive, in spite of his enormous bulk.

"You go high enough, but you don't go far enough," commented Sid. "Now, if they allow hurdling in football, you'd be right in it for jumping over the line to make a touch-down."

"Maybe they'll change the rules so as to allow it," spoke Grasshopper hopefully.

"Get out, you old Stoic!" cried Phil. "Come and take a walk with us. Tom is going to blow us to ginger ale."

"No; I'm going to keep at it until I beat my best mark," and the jumper again got on the line.

"Curious chap," commented Phil, as the three chums walked on.

"But as good as they make 'em," added Tom.

"That's what!" spoke Sid fervently.

Snail Looper soon recovered from the effects of the hard Boxer Hall game, and practice was resumed with the 'varsity bucking against the scrub. There was a big improvement shown in the first team, for the players had demonstrated that they could meet with an eleven counted among the best, and win from it.

"Well, fellows, are you all ready for the trip Saturday?" asked the Coach at the conclusion of the practice. "None of you are falling behind in studies, I hope?"

Captain Cross assured Mr. Lighton that every man on the team was A1 when it came to scholarship.

"Now, a word of advice," went on the coach. "Don't get nervous over this out-of-town trip. We're going up against a hard team, and on strange grounds, but just think of it as if you were going to play Fairview, or Boxer Hall, or Dodville Prep right here. The worst feature of out-of-town games is that they throw the men off their stride. Don't let that happen to you."

They all promised that it should not, and then the players separated. The coach had arranged for a game with a distant college--Wescott University--which boasted of a superb eleven. It meant a long trip on the train, two days spent away from Randall, and a day to come back in.

The journey to Wescott University was much enjoyed by the eleven and the substitutes. They reached the city at dusk, and were at once taken to the hotel, where quarters had been secured for them. A big crowd of students had planned to come from Randall to see the game, a special excursion train having been arranged for.

"Now, fellows, early to bed to-night," stipulated the coach after supper was over. "No skylarking, and don't go to eating a lot of trash. I want you all to be on edge. We'll devote to-morrow to practice, and the next day to wiping up the gridiron with Wescott."

Tom and Phil roomed together, and at midnight Tom, who had just fallen into a doze, after envying the sound slumber of his chum, was awakened by the latter.

"I'm sick, Tom," said Phil faintly.

"What's the matter, old man?" asked the left-end anxiously, and he jumped out of bed, turning on the electric light.

"I don't know, but I'm dizzy, and I feel--well, rotten, to put it mildly."

"That's too bad. Can I get you anything?"

"Better call Mr. Lighton. I don't want to take a lot of dope unless he says so."

Tom quickly dressed and called the coach, who was on the same floor where all the football players had their rooms. He came in quickly, and after one glance at Phil insisted on calling the hotel physician. The doctor went through the usual procedure, and left some medicine for Phil.

"What is it?" asked the coach of the physician.

"Nothing, only his stomach is a little upset. Change of diet and water will sometimes do it. He'll be all right in the morning."

Phil was better the next day, but when he went out to practice with the lads, there was a lassitude in his movements, and a lack of snap in his manner of running the team, that made several open their eyes. Mr. Lighton said nothing, but Tom whispered to his chum to "brace up." Phil tried to, and managed to get through the practice with some return of his former vim. He went to bed early that night, and slept soundly--too heavily, Tom thought, as it might indicate fever.

The day of the game, however, Phil seemed all right. His face was paler than usual, and there was a grimness about his lips that Tom seldom saw. The Randall boys had light practice in the morning, running through the signals, and then took a rest until it was time to go on the field.

There was a big attendance, and the cheers of the small contingent of Randall supporters could hardly be heard. The preliminary practice seemed to go all right, and when the whistle blew there was a confident eleven that lined up against Wescott. The play was hard and snappy, with much kicking and open work. The rivals of Randall had a couple of backs who were excellent punters, and the visitors were kept busy chasing the ball. But there came a change, and when Randall had the pigskin Phil rushed his men up the field to such good advantage that they scored the first touch-down, to the no small dismay of the Wescott team.

"Now, Phil, some more work like that," said Holly Cross, but the quarter-back did not answer.

Wescott got possession of the ball toward the close of the first half, and with surprising power rushed it up the field. In less time than had been thought possible they had a touch-down. Randall lost the pigskin on fumbles, and when Wescott got it again they kicked a field goal. This ended the half.

Phil staggered as he walked to the dressing-room for the rest period.

"What's the matter?" asked the coach quickly.

"Nothing--I'm--I'm all right," answered the quarter-back, and he gritted his teeth hard.

Wescott kicked off in the second half, and Holly Cross managed to run the ball well back.

"Rip out another touch-down!" the captain cried as he got in place for the first scrimmage. Phil began on the signal. He hesitated. The players looked at him quickly. He was swaying back and forth on the ground. Once more he tried to give the combination of letters and figures. But the words would not come. He put his hands out to steady himself, and a moment later, with a groan, toppled over.

"He's hurt!" cried Tom as he sprang to the side of his chum. "But I never knew Phil to give up."

Holly Cross was bending over him, while the other Randallites crowded up, and the Wescott lads stretched out on the field. A doctor ran in from the side lines on a signal from the coach. He felt of Phil's pulse.

"Why, the chap has a high fever!" he exclaimed. "He has collapsed from it. He can't play any more! Take him off the field!"

A groan went up from the Randall players.