DON VISITS THE DOCTOR
"WHAT did Walton want of you?" asked Tim a half-hour later, when the
occupants of Number 6 were settled at opposite sides of the table for
study.
"Walton?" repeated Don vaguely. "Oh, nothing especial."
"Nothing especial? Then why the mysterious summons? Did he make any
crack about that little escapade of ours?"
"He mentioned it. Shut up and let me get to work, Tim."
"Mentioned it how? What did he say? Any chance of beating him up? I've
always had a longing, away down deep inside me, Donald, to place my fist
violently against some portion of Walton's--er--facial contour. Say,
that's good, isn't it? Facial contour's decidedly good, Don."
"Fine," responded the other listlessly.
Tim peered across at him under the droplight. "Say, you look as if you'd
lost a dozen dear friends. Anything wrong? Look here, has Walton been
acting nasty?"
"Don't be a chump, Tim. I'm all right. Or, anyway, I'm only sort
of--sort of tired. Dry up and let me stuff."
"Oh, very well, but you needn't be so haughty about it. I don't want to
share your secrets with dear Harry. Everyone to his taste, as the old
lady said when she kissed the cow."
Tim's sarcasm, however, brought no response, and presently, after
growling a little while he pawed his books over and dropped the subject,
to Don's relief, and silence fell. Don made a fine pretence of studying,
but most of the time he couldn't have told what book lay before him.
When the hour was up Tim, who had by then returned to his usual
condition of cheerful good nature, tried to induce Don to go over to
Hensey to call on Larry Jones, who, it seemed, had perfected a most
novel and marvellous trick with a ruler and two glasses of water. But
Don refused to be enticed and Tim went off alone, gravely cautioning his
room-mate against melancholia.
"Try to keep your mind off your troubles, Donald. Think of bright and
happy things, like me or the pretty birds. Remember that nothing is ever
quite as bad as we think it is, that every line has a silver clouding
and that--that it's always dawnest before the dark. Farewell, you old
grouch!"
Don didn't have to pretend very hard the next day that he was feeling
ill, for an almost sleepless night, spent in trying to find some way out
of his difficulties, had left him hollow-eyed and pale. Breakfast had
been a farce and dinner a mere empty pretence, and between the two meals
he had fared illy in classes. It was scarcely more than an exaggeration
to tell Coach Robey that he didn't feel well enough to play, and the
coach readily believed him and gave him over to the mercies of Danny
Moore.
The trainer tried hard to get Don to enumerate some tangible symptoms,
but Don could only repeat that he was dreadfully tired and out of sorts.
"Eat anything that didn't agree with you?" asked Danny.
"No, I didn't eat much of anything. I didn't have any appetite."
"Sure, that was sensible, anyway. I'll be after giving you a tonic, me
boy. Take it like I tell you, do ye mind, keep off your feet and get a
good sleep. After breakfast come to me in the gym and I'll have a look
at you."
Don took the tonic--when he thought of it--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 see
the way Walton played today? If he gets in tomorrow and plays like that
against Chambers Robey'll be handing him the place! What the dickens is
wrong with you, anyway?"
"I'm just tired," responded Don.
"Tired!" Tim was puzzled. "What for? You haven't worked since day before
yesterday. What you've got is malaria or something. Tell you what we'll
do, Don; we'll beat it over to the doctor's after supper, eh?"
But Don shook his head. "Danny's tonic is all I need," he said. "I dare
say I'll be feeling great in the morning."
"You dare say you will! Don't you feel sure you will? Because I've got
to tell you, Donald, that this is a plaguy bad time to get laid off,
son. If you're not a regular little Bright Eyes by Monday Robey'll can
you as sure as shooting!"
"I wouldn't much care if he did," muttered Don.
"You wouldn't much---- Say, are you crazy?" Tim stopped short on the
walk and viewed his chum in amazement. "Is it your brain that's gone
back on you? Don't you _want_ to play against Claflin?"
"I suppose so. Yes, of course I do, but----"
"Then don't talk like a piece of cheese! You'll come with me to the
doctor after supper if I have to drag you there by one heel!"
And so go he did, and the doctor looked at his tongue and felt his pulse
and "pawed him over," as Don put it, and ended by patting him on the
back and accepting a nice bright half-dollar--half-price to Academy
students--in exchange for a prescription.
"You're a little nervous," said the doctor. "Thinking too much about
that football game, I guess. Don't do it. Put it out of your mind. Take
that medicine every two hours according to directions on the bottle and
you'll be all right, my boy."
Don thanked him, slipped the prescription in a pocket and headed for
school. But Tim grabbed him and faced him about. "You don't swallow the
prescription, Donald," he said. "You take it to a druggist and he gives
you something in a bottle. That's what you swallow, the stuff in the
bottle. I'm not saying that it mightn't do you just as much good to eat
the paper, but we'd better play by the rules. So come on, you
lunk-head."
"Oh, I forgot," murmured Don.
"Of course you did," agreed the other sarcastically. "And, look here, if
anyone asks you your name, it's Donald Croft Gilbert. Think you can
remember that? Donald Croft----"
"Oh, dry up," said Don. "How much will this fool medicine cost me?"
"How much have you got?"
"About eighty cents, I think."
"It'll cost you eighty cents, then. Ask me something easier. I don't
pretend to know how druggists do it, but they can always look right
through your clothes and count your money. Never knew it to fail!"
But it failed this time, or else the druggist counted wrong, for the
prescription was a dollar and Tim had to make up the balance. He
insisted on Don taking the first dose then and there, so that he could
get in another before bedtime, and Don meekly obeyed. After he had
swallowed it he begged a glass of soda water from the druggist to take
the taste out of his mouth, and the druggist, doubtless realising the
demands of the occasion, stood treat to them both. On the way back Tim
figured it that if they had only insisted on having ice-cream sodas they
would have reduced the price of the medicine to its rightful cost. Don,
though, firmly insisted that it was worth every cent of what he had paid
for it.
"No one," he said convincedly, "could get that much nastiness into a
small bottle for less than a dollar!"