simistically. "I guess--I guess I've got a little fever."

Tim stared at him puzzledly. "Fever? What for? I mean---- Say, are you
fooling?"

"No. My face is sort of hot, honest, Tim." And so it was, possibly the
consciousness of fibbing and the difficulty of doing it successfully was
responsible for the flush. Tim pushed his legs out of bed and viewed his
friend disgustedly.

"Don, you're getting to be one of those kleptomaniacs--no, that isn't
it! What's the word? Hydrochondriacs, isn't it? Anyway, whatever it is,
you're it! You've got so you imagine you're sick when you aren't. Forget
it, Donald, and cheer up!"

"Oh, I'll be all right, thanks," responded the other dolefully. "I
guess I'm lots better than I was."

"Of course you are! Why, hang it, man, you've simply got to be O. K.
today! If you're not Robey'll can you as sure as shooting! Smile for the
gentleman, Don, and then get a move on and come to breakfast."

"I don't think I want any breakfast, thanks."

"You will when you smell it. Want me to start the water for you?"

"If I was a hydrochondriac I wouldn't want any water, would I?"

"Hypochondriac's what I meant, I guess. Hurry up before the mob gets
there."

Tim struggled into his bath-robe and pattered off down the corridor,
leaving Don to follow at his leisure. But, instead of following, Don
seated himself on the edge of his bed and viewed life gloomily. If Tim
refused to believe in his illness, how was he to convince Coach Robey of
it? He might, he reflected, rub talcum on his face, but he was afraid
that wouldn't deceive anyone, the coach least of all. And, according to
his bargain with Harry Walton, he must sever his connection with the
team today. If he didn't Walton would go to the principal and tell what
he had witnessed from his window that Saturday night, and not only he,
but Tim and Clint as well, would suffer. And, still worse, the team
would be beaten by Claflin as surely as--as Tim was shouting to him from
the bathroom! He got up and donned his bath-robe and set off down the
corridor with lagging feet, so wretched in mind by this time that it
required no great effort of imagination to believe himself ailing in
body.

To his surprise--and rather to his disgust--he found himself intensely
hungry at breakfast and it was all he could do to refuse the steak and
baked potato set before him. Under the appraising eye of Mr. Robey, he
drank a glass of milk and nibbled at a piece of toast, hi