DICK’S STRANGE ILLNESS.
Dick Merriwell was ill. He had awakened with a throbbing headache and
burning flesh. During the remainder of the night there had been little
sleep for him, though he tried not to disturb Douglass.
In the morning Dick had risen, uttering no word of complaint, although
he was weak and it required a mighty effort for him to get up at all.
The keen eyes of Douglass had discovered that something was wrong, and
he asked Dick if he felt sick. Dick had answered that he was feeling
somewhat "off," but reckoned he would be all right after a bit.
And so he took his morning shower, believing that would set him right.
He was unable to eat any breakfast, but still he would not give up and
admit himself ill.
Prank Merriwell had appointed a time that forenoon to go through certain
signal-practise with the team, wishing to make sure the players
thoroughly understood the signals calling for the new formations he had
planned.
It was precisely ten o’clock when the eleven went onto the field,
finding their coach waiting for them Frank’s keen eyes scanned the men,
to see if they appeared in condition. He smiled a bit as he noted their
clear eyes and healthy complexions—smiled till his eyes rested on Dick.
Then that smile disappeared, and a moment later he was speaking to his
brother.
"You’re sick, Dick," he said positively.
"Oh, I’m feeling a little rocky, that’s all," was the assertion of the
boy. "That will be all right."
Frank grasped his hand, finding it hot and throbbing.
"You’re sick," he repeated. "You are feverish. Your face is flushed and
your eyes are red. I’m afraid you need a doctor, boy."
"Pooh!" scoffed Dick. "I won’t have any old doctor! I won’t be dosed
with powders and pills! Don’t you worry about me, Frank, for I’ll come
round all right."
"I’m sure you’re in no condition to play this afternoon," declared
Merry, in a low tone.
"Oh!" exclaimed the boy almost fiercely. "I will play! Don’t tell me I
can’t play, Frank—please don’t. I’m going to play in that game. I
wouldn’t miss taking part in it for a thousand dollars!"
Frank was compelled to smile, even though the smile was a grave one.
"You must be reasonable," he said. "If you are not in condition to play,
it will hurt the game and hurt you to put you in. Your boundless energy
has enabled you to do surprising things in past games, but that will
fail you if you’re ill."
"Oh, my energy’s all right," insisted the lad doggedly, adding, in true
boyish fashion: "I’ll prove it. See!"
Brad Buckhart was standing thirty feet away, with his hands on his hips,
his back toward them, surveying the field. Straight at the Texan Dick
Merriwell dashed, to the surprise of Frank, who was not quick enough to
restrain him. Frank’s first thought was that Dick meant to tackle the
unsuspecting Western youth and fling him down. Instead of doing so,
however, Dick leaped like a panther into the air, and sailed fairly over
Buckhart’s head.
A shout of surprise went up from all who witnessed this feat, while
Buckhart stared, and exclaimed:
"Well, durn my hoofs! Talk about your wild horses! Whatever sort of
springs have you got concealed in those legs of yours, Merriwell?"
Dick laughed, his face flushed more than ever, and turned back to Frank,
demanding:
"Now, what do you think? Are you going to keep me out of the game
because I lack energy?"
Frank shook his head, but his eyes could not entirely conceal his
admiration for his brother’s feat.
"That’s no real proof," he said. "You’re all right to do that now, but
you know it takes endurance to hold out through a game of football."
"If you keep me out of the game," came almost passionately from the lips
of the boy, "I’ll never forgive you as long as I live! If I couldn’t
play football, I wouldn’t stay in this old school another day!"
In his anxiety and excitement, Dick was saying things he did not really
mean, which Merry well understood.
"We’ll talk it over later," said Merry. "Now, we’ll go through the drill
I want the team to take this forenoon."
That drill consisted of making quick formations for mass-plays and
interference, and in trying certain new plays which demanded prompt and
concerted action in order to be effective.
No effort was made to teach any one anything further in the way of
tackling, punting, kicking, or running with the ball. This was no time
for that sort of practise. Indeed, Merriwell would not have called the
team out at all on this forenoon had he felt confident that all were
thoroughly familiar with the new plays he had planned.
A ball was used, and the passes and formations made on the signals. When
anything went wrong, Frank kept them repeating the attempt till they got
it right.
Dick filled his regular position as half-back, and seemed trying to
prove to his brother that he was all right. But before the practise was
over something happened. Several times Dick had fumbled the ball, adding
to Merry’s anxiety, for, as a rule, the boy was rather clever in
handling any kind of a pass. The ball was sent back to Dick, and, with
it clasped under his arm, he started to spring forward to go through the
center. He did not take two steps when he suddenly staggered, dropped
the ball, and fell to the ground.
In a moment Brad Buckhart was kneeling beside him and had lifted his
head. Dick’s eyes were closed, and now his face was white and almost
ghastly.
"Bust my broncos!" blurted Brad. "Something wrong with him! He went down
like a cow with a rope round her horns. Bring water quick, somebody!"
Water was brought, and Dick’s temples were wet, while a little was
forced between his lips. Frank was at work over him when the boy drew a
deep breath and muttered:
"I’m not sick! Going to play! Will play! Tell you I will play!"
Frank was pale, for he was troubled by a suspicion that filled him with
untold anger.
Was it possible Dick had been drugged in some manner by some dastardly
enemy at the academy?
There was a department in the academy known as "The Hospital," and
thither Dick Merriwell was carried. He revived while they were taking
him there, finding the arm of his brother about him.
"What’s the matter?" he asked bewilderedly. "Something black came before
my eyes, and then the ground seemed to come up and strike me."
"We’ll find out what the matter is, if possible," said Frank grimly.
"Perhaps a doctor can tell us what ails you."
Then once more Dick was seized by the fear that he would not be
permitted to take part in the football-game that day, and he struggled
weakly to be put down.
"I can walk," he said. "I’m all right, Frank! Anybody’d think me a baby,
to see you fellows carrying me this way."
"Whoa-up!" came from Buckhart, who was one of the party bearing Dick.
"Don’t you go to bucking, my boy. Your brother is running this here
drive, and he’s the boss of the whole outfit. I allow you’ll have to do
as he says."
In the hospital Frank whispered a few words in the ear of the doctor.
"There is something queer about this business, doctor," he said. "I wish
you would see if my brother has been poisoned, or drugged. I have
reasons to fear that he has. If he has been drugged, don’t say a word of
it to anybody but me—at present."
The doctor nodded.
So it came about that, on his return to the academy, Uric Scudder found
the cadets gathered in groups, earnestly talking of what had happened.
Scudder heard them expressing opinions concerning the result of the game
if Merriwell did not participate, and he stared. Then he heard a fellow
say that it was pretty certain Dick would not be able to play, and that
gave him a shock. Straightway he began to ask questions, and soon
learned what had happened.
"I suppose you’re glad of it, Eggs?" said Ned Stanton.
Uric’s face flushed as he heard this opprobrious name, and he snarled:
"I sha’n’t cry!"
Then he whirled and hurried away, hearing behind him the imitated
clucking of a hen, the crowing of a rooster, and a general cackling from
a dozen different ones in the group.
"Pards," said Brad Buckhart, who was one of the gathering, "I’ve got a
notion in this old noodle of mine that there has been some kind of
crooked business. I stayed with Merriwell as long as they would let me,
and I heard the doctor whisper something to his brother after he had
made an examination. I don’t reckon I’d better state just what I heard,
for I didn’t hear it very clear, and I might be mistaken; but it
wouldn’t surprise this old Maverick if some sneaking rattler had soaked
his fangs into Merriwell on the sly. And if it turns out that way,
hanging will be too good for the varmint! We all know Merriwell’s got a
bunch of coyotelike enemies hereabouts, though some of them have been
singing mighty soft lately."
His words aroused some excitement, and not a little indignation, it
being the generally expressed sentiment that somebody deserved the
severest sort of punishment in case Merriwell had met with foul play.
And now it quickly became evident that Merriwell had been generally
regarded as of prime importance on the eleven, for on all sides were
heard expressions of fear concerning the outcome of the game with
Hudsonville if Dick did not play.
Not a few positively declared that Fardale didn’t have one chance in ten
of winning with Merriwell off the team. Some asserted that too much
importance was given to the feats of Merriwell in the past, asserting
that another capable fellow in his position, having the same
opportunities, might have accomplished fully as much. But this was not
the general feeling, and when the report came from the hospital that
Dick could not play that afternoon, a cloud of gloom seemed to settle
over the academy.
Ted Smart went round telling how happy he was, and begging somebody to
kick him just to make him feel still happier.
"Oh, we’ll wipe up the earth with Hudsonville!" he said. "We’ll have a
regular walkover now that we’ve been strengthened by the loss of
Merriwell! He was a poor man on the team! He never could play the game!
Oh, luddy-dah! what a gay old day this is going to be for Fardale!"
There was one fellow who kept out of sight as much as possible, yet who
was anxious to know what effect the sudden illness of Merriwell had on
the cadets. Meeting Jim Watson in an upper corridor of the barracks,
Lynch stopped and questioned him. Watson was pleased to have a
first-class man like Lynch speak to him, and he readily told everything
he knew. But when it was all over, and Lynch had gone on his way, Watson
fell to wondering over some of the questions the fellow had asked. It
was plain to him that Lynch was keenly interested in Merriwell’s
condition, yet did not wish to have it generally known that he was so
greatly concerned.
"I wonder why?" speculated "Foxy" Watson. "They say there’s something
queer about Merriwell’s illness. I told Lynch of that, and he seemed
rather nervous. I wonder why?"
And he continued to wonder if it were possible that Lynch was in any way
connected with the sudden manner in which Dick Merriwell had fallen ill.