“Sometimes a fellow has his ankle sprained or a knee twisted, or a shoulder-bone bust, or something like that.  But it isn’t often anything worse occurs.”

“Well, I suppose it’s all right then.  Only when I was a boy we never went round trying to get our ankles sprained or our collar-bones broke; you young fellows are tougher than we were, I guess.”

“I shouldn’t wonder, sir.  I believe Joel has been feeling pretty bad for a long time because he’s got nothing worse than a broken finger.”

“What?  Broke his finger, did he?  Eh?  He didn’t write anything about it; what’s he mean, getting broken to pieces and not telling his parents about it?” West glanced apprehensively at Joel, but the latter had missed the conversation, being busy following the progress of Barton, of the scrub, who was doing a long run along the side line.

“Well, it wasn’t much of a break, sir.  It’s all right now, and I think he thought you’d be worried, you know.  I’m sure if it had been anything important he would have written at once.”

“Humph,” grunted Joel’s father.  “If he’s going to break himself in pieces he’d better stop football.  I won’t have him taking risks.  I’ll tell him so!”

The fifteen-minute half had come to an end, and the players were either resting on the ground or going through some pass or start under the tuition of a coach.  Suddenly Joel looked down to see Briscom, the scrub captain, climbing the seats.  He ducked his bare head to the others and sank into the seat at Joel’s side.

“Look here, March, can you help us out the next half?  They’ve taken Webster on the Varsity, and”—­he lowered his voice to a confidential roar—­“we want to make a good showing to-day.”

“Of course,” answered Joel, “I’ll come at once.  Can I get some togs from some fellow?”

“Yes.  I’ll ask Whitman to find some.  I’m sorry to take you away from your folks, but it’s only fifteen minutes, you know.”

So when the whistle blew Joel was at left half-back on the scrub, attired in borrowed plumage that came far from fitting him.  And Mrs. March was in a tremor of dismay lest some one should throw Joel down as she had seen Blair thrown.  Mr. March had not quite recovered from his resentment over his son’s failure to apprise him of the broken finger, which, after all, was only broken in West’s imagination, and viewed his advent on the field with disfavor.

Outfield began to wonder if his pleasant fiction regarding Joel’s finger was to lead to unpleasant results, when Mr. March relieved his mind somewhat by suddenly taking interest in the career of his son, who was trying to make an end run inside Dutton with half the scrub hauling, pushing, pulling, shoving him along.

“Er—­isn’t that likely to be bad for that finger of his?”

“Oh, no, sir,” answered West.  “He looks out for his finger all right enough.  There, he made the distance.  Bully work.  Good old Joel.”