“Not exactly all right,” answered Phil, and he seemed to be carefully picking his words, so slowly did he speak. “She had been in poor health for some time, and we thought a change of air would do her good. So father took her to Florida—a place near Palm Beach. I came on here, and I hoped to hear good news. Now—now——” He could not proceed, and turned away.
Tom coughed unnecessarily loud, and Sid seemed to have suddenly developed a most tremendous cold. He had to go to the window to look out, probably to see if it was getting colder. In doing so he knocked from a chair a football, which bounded erratically about the room, as the spherical pigskin always does bounce. The movements of it attracted the attention of all, and mercifully came as a relief to their overwrought nerves.
“Well,” said Sid, as he blew his nose with seemingly needless violence, “I suppose you’ll have to give up football now; for you’ll go to Florida.”
“Yes,” said Phil simply, “of course I shall go. I think I’ll wire dad first, though, and tell him I’m going to start.”
“I’ll take the message to the telegraph office for you,” offered Tom eagerly.
“No, let me go,” begged Sid. “I can run faster than you, Tom.”
“That’s a nice thing to say, especially when I’m going to try for end on the ’varsity eleven,” said Tom a bit reproachfully. “Don’t let Holly Cross or Coach Lighton hear you say that, or I’ll be down and out. I’m none too good in my running, I know, but I’m going to practice.”
“Oh, I guess you’ll make out all right,” commented Phil. “I’m much obliged to you fellows. I guess I can take the message myself, though,” and he sat down at the littered table, pushing the things aside, to write the dispatch.
Tom and Sid said little when Phil went out to take the telegram to the office. The two chums, one on the old patched sofa and the other in the creaking chair, which at every movement sent up a cloud of dust from the ancient cushion, maintained a solemn silence. Tom did remark once: