"Heigho!" exclaimed Phil. "Here comes the interurban!"
"Quick—your flashlight!" cried Speed, with sudden resolution. "I'll flag it!"
Medford's football star dashed forward but Milt fumbled the flashlight in handing it over and by the time Speed got hold of it the interurban was whizzing past.
"I knew I ought to have gone home by traction!" he lamented, loudly. "Something told me not to go back with you guys! This is terrible!"
"Listen, Speed—you're getting all worked up over this," consoled Milt. "You crawl in the car there and curl up on the seat and get your sleep. That's why the Coach wants you to turn in at ten—so you'll get the right amount of sleep. If he should find out about this, we'll tell him you got your sleep just the same!"
"Sleep?" bellowed a greatly aggravated! Speed. "I haven't slept for four nights as it is! How can I sleep now?"
"Hey, Phil!" cried Milt, insinuatingly. "I'll fix this bird. Where's the monkey wrench?"
It was a quarter to one o'clock before a familiar looking runabout appeared in front of the MacDaniel Dormitory and the door popped open to let a highly exasperated and greatly worried athletic figure out. There was not a sign of another soul upon the campus, nor was there a light visible save the flickering street lamps.
"Coast is clear!" whispered Milt. "Awfully sorry, old boy, but nobody will be any the wiser. You sneak in to your room and...!"
"Hello, there!" sounded a voice. "Is that you, Speed?"