“Yes; he’ll probably adopt the early English or the late French style,” declared Phil, “and have nothing but a calendar on it. Well, every one to his notion. Hello, the alarm clock has stopped,” and he began to shake it vigorously.
“Easy with it!” cried Tom. “Do you want to jar the insides loose?”
“You can’t hurt this clock,” declared Phil, and, as if to prove his words, the fussy little timepiece began ticking away again, as loudly and insistingly as ever. “Well, let’s get the room into some decent kind of shape, and then I’m going out and see what the prospects are for football,” he went on. “I want to make that quarter-back position if I have to train nights and early mornings.”
“Oh, you’ll get it, all right,” declared Tom. “I wish I was as sure of a place as you are. I believe——”
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. Sid opened it. In the hall stood one of the college messengers.
“Hello, Wallops; what have you there?” asked Tom.
“Telegram for Mr. Phil Clinton.”
“Hand it over,” spoke Sid, taking the envelope from the youth. “Probably it’s a proposition for him to manage one of the big college football teams.”
As Wallops, who, like nearly everything and every one else about the college had a nickname, departed down the corridor, Phil opened the missive. It was brief, but his face paled as he read it.
“Bad news?” asked Tom quickly.