eping out of his cheeks as the coach turned toward
him, and there was an instant of silence before he replied with lowered
eyes.

"N-no, sir, I'm not feeling very--very fit. I'm sorry."

"You're not?" Mr. Robey's voice had an edge. "Danny says you're
perfectly fit. What's wrong?"

"I--I don't know, sir. I don't feel--well."

A number of the players still within hearing turned to listen. Mr. Robey
viewed Don with a puzzled frown. Then he shrugged impatiently.

"You know best, of course," he said shortly, "but if you don't work
today, Gilbert, you're plumb out of it. I can't keep your place open for
you forever, you know. What do you say? Want to try it?"

Don wished that the earth under his feet would open up and swallow him.
He tried to return the coach's gaze, but his eyes wandered. The first
time he tried to speak he made no sound, and when he did find his voice
it was so low that the coach impatiently bade him speak up.

"I don't think it would be any good, sir," replied Don huskily. "I--I'm
not feeling very well."

There was a long silence. Then Mr. Robey's voice came to him as cold as
ice. "Very well, Gilbert, clean your locker out and hand in your things
to the trainer. Walton!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Go in at left guard on the first squad." Mr. Robey turned again to Don.
"Gilbert," he said very quietly, "I don't understand you. You are
perfectly able to play, and you know it. The only explanation that
occurs to me is that you're in a funk. If that's so it is a fortunate
thing for all of us that we've discovered it now instead of later.
There's no place on this team, my boy, for a quitter."

Coach and players turned away, leaving Don standing alone there before
the bench. Miserably he groped his way to it and sat down with hanging
head. His eyes were wet and he was horribly afraid that someone would
see it. A hand fell on his shoulder and he glanced up into Tim's
troubled face.

"I heard, Don," said Tim. "I'm frightfully sorry, old man. Are you sure
you can't do it!"

Don shook his head silently. Tim sighed.

"Gee, it's rotten, ain't it? Maybe he didn't mean what he said, though.
Maybe, if you're all right Monday, he'll give you another chance.
I'm--I'm beastly sorry, Don!"

The hand on his shoulder pressed reassuringly and drew away and Tim
hurried out to his place. Presently Don took a deep breath, got to his
feet and, trying his hardest to look unconcerned but making sorry work
of it, skirted the st