--ate a fair supper and went
early to bed, not so much in the hope of curing his ailment as because
he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. He slept pretty well, but was
dimly conscious of waking frequently during the night, and when morning
came felt fully as tired as when he had retired. Breakfast was beyond
him, although Mr. Robey, his attention drawn to Don by Harry Walton's
innocent "You're looking pretty bum, Gilbert," counselled soft boiled
eggs and hot milk. Don dallied with the eggs and drank part of the milk
and was glad to escape as soon as he could.

Danny gave him a very thorough inspection in the rubbing room after
breakfast, but could find nothing wrong. "Sure, you're as sound as Colin
Meagher's fiddle, me boy. Where is it it hurts ye?"

"It doesn't hurt anywhere, Danny," responded Don. "I'm all right, I
suppose, only I don't feel--don't feel very fit."

"A bit fine, you are, and I'm thinking you'd better lay off the work for
today. Be outdoors as much as you can, but don't be tiring yourself out.
Have you taken the tonic like I told ye?"

"I've taken enough of the beastly stuff," answered Don listlessly.

Danny laughed. "Sure, it's the fine-tasting medicine, lad. Keep at it.
And listen to me, now. If you want to play agin Claflin, Donny, you do
as I'm tellin' you and don't be thinkin' you know more about it than I
do. Sure, Robey won't look at ye at all, come a week from tomorrow, if
you don't brace up."

"Oh, I'm all right, Danny, thanks. Maybe if I rest off today I'll be
fine tomorrow."

"That's what I'm tellin' you. See that ye do it."

That afternoon he watched practice from the bench without getting into
togs and saw Harry Walton play at left guard. He would much rather have
remained away from the field, but to have done so might, he thought,
have looked queer. Coach Robey was solicitous about him, but apparently
did not take his indisposition very seriously. "'Take it easy, Gilbert,"
he said, "and don't worry. You'll be all right for tomorrow, I guess.
You've been working pretty hard, my boy. Better pull a blanket over your
shoulders. This breeze is rather biting. Can't have you laid up for
long, you know."

Harry Walton performed well that afternoon, playing with a vim and dash
that was something of a revelation to his team-mates. Tim was evidently
troubled when he walked back to hall with Don after practice. "For the
love of mud, Don," he pleaded, "get over it and come back! Did you