“You, Prescott?” cried Mr. Morton.  “But only yesterday Dr. Bentley reported that your lungs had not sufficiently recovered.”

“I know, sir,” Dick laughed coolly; “but that was yesterday.

“It would be foolhardy, my boy.  If you went out on the field, and any exceptional strain came up, you might do an injury to your lungs.”

“Mr. Morton,” replied the team’s left end, very quietly, “I’m willing to go out on the field—–­and do all that’s in me, for old Gridley—–­if it’s the last act of my life.”

“Your hand, Prescott!” cried Mr. Morton, gripping the boy’s palm.  “That’s the right spirit of grit and loyalty.  But it wouldn’t be right to let you do it.  It isn’t necessary, or human, to pay a life for a game.”

“Will you let me go on the field if Dr. Bentley passes me today?” queried Prescott.

“But he won’t.”

“Try him.”

Mr. Morton nodded, and some one ran out and passed the word for Dr. Bentley, who acted as medical director in the School’s athletics.

Within two minutes the physician entered dressing quarters.

Coach Morton stated Prescott’s request.

“Absurd,” declared Dr. Bentley.

“Will you examine me, sirs” insisted Prescott.

With a sigh the old physician opened his satchel, taking out a stethoscope and some other instruments.

“Strip to the waist,” he ordered tersely.

Many eager hands stretched out to aid Dick in his task.

In a few moments the young athlete, the upper half of his body bared, stood before the medical examiner.  For his height, weight and age Prescott was surely a fine picture of physical strength.

But Dr. Bentley, with the air and the preformed bias of a professional skeptic, went all over the boy’s torso, starting with a prolonged examination of the heart action and its sounds.

“You find the arterial pressure steady and sound, don’t you,” asked Dick Prescott?

“Hm!” muttered Dr. Bentley.  “Now, take a full breath and hold it.”

Thump! thump! thump! went the doctor’s forefinger against the back of his other hand, as he explored all the regions of Dick’s chest.

A dozen more tests followed.

“What do you think, Doctor?” asked Mr. Morton.

“Hm!  The young man recovers with great rapidity.  If he goes into a mild game he’ll stand it all right.  If it turns out to be a rough game-----”

“Then I’ll fare as badly as the rest, won’t I, Doctor?” laughed Dick.  “Thank you for passing me, sir.  I’ll get into my togs at once.”

“But I haven’t said that I passed you.”

Dick, however, feigned not to hear this.  He was rushing to his locker, from which he began to haul the various parts of his rig.

“Is it a crime to let young Prescott go on the field?” asked Coach Morton anxiously.

“No,” replied Dr. Bentley hesitatingly.  “It might be a greater crime to keep him off the gridiron today.  Men have been known to die of grief.”