"There's no specially bad news," he said, "but it's this way: She has a malady which, sooner or later, unless it is conquered, will--will take her away from me--and sis. Dad thinks an operation is the only hope, but they keep putting it off from time to time, on a slim chance that she may recover without it. For the operation is a desperate expedient at best. And that's why I'm not myself. That's why I can't go into the games with all my might. I expect any moment to be summoned to the sidelines to get a telegram saying--saying----" He choked up, and could not finish. "Is it--is it as bad as that?" asked Tom huskily, and he put his arm over Phil's shoulder, as his chum sat in the old easy chair. "It's pretty bad," said Phil softly. Then, with a sudden change of manner, he exclaimed: "But say, I didn't mean to tell you fellows that. I don't believe in relating my troubles to every one," and he smiled, though it was not like his usual cheery face that looked at his two chums. "Oh, come now!" cried Sid. "As if we didn't want to hear! And as if you shouldn't tell us your troubles! Why, I expect to tell you fellows mine, and I want to hear yours in return, eh, Tom." "Of course," said the pitcher heartily. "Well, that's mighty white of you chaps," went on Phil, swallowing a lump in his throat. "But I'm not going to bother you any more, just now. Only that's the reason I'm--well, that I can't play as I want to play. But I'm going to try to forget it. I'm going into the next game, and help rip their line to pieces. I'm going to pilot our fellows to a big score or dislocate my other shoulder." "Good!" cried Sid. "Now let's get to bed. It's almost morning." The little talk among the three chums was productive of good. There was a closer bond of union among them than there had ever been before. They felt more like brothers, and Tom and Sid watched Phil for the next few days as if he was a little chap, over whom they had been given charge. "Oh, say!" the quarter-back exclaimed at length one afternoon, when they had followed him to football practice, and walked home with him. "I'm not so bad as all that, you know." "Did you hear any news to-day?" asked Tom, ignoring the mild rebuke. "Yes. Got a telegram from dad. Things look a little brighter, and yet----" He paused. "Well," he continued, "I don't want to think too much about it. We play Haddonfield to-morrow. I want to wipe up the gridiron with them." Which Phil and his chums pretty nearly did. Haddonfield Preparatory School had the best eleven in years, but, even with a number of scrub players on Randall, the score was forty-six to nothing. There was a different air about the college team as the lads went singing from the field that afternoon. There was confidence in their eyes.