"Well, thank you for that; but I mean relatively. I'm only one of eleven players, and my place could be filled. Still, I do flatter myself that I've got the team into some kind of machine-like precision, which is very needful in a game. I don't mean that I've done it all alone, for I haven't. Every man has done more than his share, and with a coach like Mr. Lighton, and a captain like Holly Cross, a fellow can do a lot. But I'm a cog in the wheels of the machine, and you know how it is when you put a new wheel in a bit of apparatus. It may be just as good, or better than the old one, but it's got to take time to work off the rough spots and fit in smoothly. "That's the way I feel. I want to stay in the game and at practice as long as I can, for when I drop out, and a new quarter-back comes in, it's bound to throw the playing off the least bit, and I'm not patting myself on the back when I say that, I hope." "Indeed, you're not! But it must be nervous work running a team when you know--well, er----" and Tom stopped in some confusion. "I know," said Phil simply. "But you can do lots of things when you try hard. I'm going to do this. I'll hold myself in readiness to jump down to Palm Beach when I get the word, but until then I'm going to stick by the team." There was a look on Phil's face that Tom had never seen there before. It was as if some inner power was urging him along the difficult path that lay before him. He seemed to be drawing on a hidden reserve supply of grit and pluck, and, as he passed up the stairs, with an easy, swaying motion of his athletic body, Tom could not help but admiring his good-looking, well-formed chum. "I--I hope nothing happens to take him away before we play our last game," whispered the 'varsity pitcher. "He's the best quarter Randall ever had, if what the old-timers say is true. If we don't win the championship I'll miss my guess." He kept on up the stairs after Phil. In the corridor stood Ford Fenton. Phil nodded at him, but did not feel like speaking. His fingers were clasped around the telegram in his pocket. "Hello!" cried Fenton. "I saw you at practice. That's a dandy trick you worked, Phil. My uncle says that----" "Ford," began Tom gravely, "have you ever had smallpox?" "Smallpox? My good gracious, no! You don't mean to say that there's a case of it here?" "We haven't been exposed to smallpox," went on Tom, "but we are both suffering from a severe attack of Uncleitis, so if you don't want to catch it you'd better keep away from us." "Hu! I guess you think that's a joke!" exclaimed Ford as he turned and walked away. Then Tom and Phil entered their room. Something in the look of their faces attracted the attention of Sid. "What's the matter?" he asked, despite Tom's frantic gestures behind Phil's back, which motions were made with a view to keeping Sid quiet. "I'm afraid I'll have to go--go where my mother is, any minute," said Phil brokenly. "I--I guess I'll pack up so--so's to be ready."