“Isn’t he a rummy old guy?” exclaimed West. “And then?”
“Then I struck out for the gym, got into my canvas togs somehow or other, and reached the field just about in time. Luckily I knew the signals. And then after I’d kicked that goal that big Eustace chap struck me like a locomotive, and I went down on the back of my head; and that’s all except that they brought me up here and Professor Gibbs plastered me up and gave me a lot of nasty sweet water to take.”
“From the little I heard I think Cloud cut the rope and made Clausen promise not to tell. And he kept his promise until he saw Hillton getting beaten yesterday, and then he couldn’t stand it, and just up and told everything, and saved us a licking.”
“Didn’t I tell you Cloud did it? Didn’t I—” There came a knock on the door and in response to Joel’s invitation Professor Wheeler and Stephen Remsen entered. West leaped off the bed—there is a rule at Hillton forbidding occupying beds save for sleep—and upset Joel’s tea. Professor Wheeler smiled as he said:
“West, you’re rather an uneasy fellow to have in a sick-room. Get something and dry that off the floor there, please.—Well, March, I understand you got there in the nick of time to-day. Mr. Remsen says you saved us from defeat.”
“Indeed he did, professor; no one else save Blair could have done it to-day. That goal from the twenty-five-yard line was as pretty a performance as I’ve ever seen.—How are you feeling, lad?”
“All right,” answered Joel. “I’ve got a bit of a headache, but I’ll be better in the morning.”
“Your appetite doesn’t seem to have failed you,” said the principal.
“No, sir, I was terribly hungry.”
“That’s a good sign, they say.—West, you may take your seat again.” The professor and Stephen Remsen occupied the two chairs, and West without hesitation sat down again on the bed.