The fussy little alarm clock ticked monotonously on, as if anxious to get its work done. Still neither of the three chums spoke. Occasionally Sid would shift his position, but he did not open his eyes. Tom sometimes looked at the liniment stain in the carpet, and then at the ink spot.
“It’s a wonder you wouldn’t get a blotter and sop up some of that writing fluid,” suggested Phil to Tom at last.
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” was the retort. “You knocked it over.”
“I’m too comfortable,” murmured Phil from the depths of the chair.
“Humph!” grunted Tom. Then there was silence once more.
“How’s your hand, Sid?” asked Tom, when the clock had ticked off what seemed to the lads about a million strokes.
“A little better. That’s the worst thing I ever had happen to me,” and Sid looked at his stiffened fingers. “I don’t know what you fellows are going to do, but I’m going to bed!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I’m sleepy.”
“Come on out and take a walk,” proposed Tom to Phil. “I’m stiff and lame. Maybe I can walk it off. Then we’ll take a hot bath in the gym and turn in.”
“That sounds good,” agreed Phil. “I’ll go you.”
They left Sid undressing and went out, it not being a proscribed hour. After a brisk walk around the campus they started for the gymnasium. As they neared it they heard voices coming from the direction of Biology Hall, a small building situated to the right of their dormitory.