“Tough luck, isn’t it?”
To which Sid made reply:
“That’s what it is.”
But, then, to be understood, you don’t need to talk much under such circumstances. In a little while footsteps were heard along the corridor.
“Here he comes!” exclaimed Tom, and he arose from the sofa with such haste that the new boards, which Phil had put on to strengthen it, seemed likely to snap off.
“Go easy on that, will you?” begged Sid. “Do you want to break it?”
“No,” answered Tom meekly, and he fell to arranging his books, a task which Sid supplemented by piling the sporting goods indiscriminately in a corner. They wanted to be busy when Phil came in.
“Whew! You fellows are raising a terrible dust!” exclaimed Phil. He seemed more at his ease now. In grief there is nothing so diverting as action, and now that he had sent his telegram, and hoped to be able to see his mother shortly, it made the bad news a little easier to bear.
“Yes,” spoke Tom; “it’s Sid. He raises a dust every time he gets into or out of that chair. I really think we ought to send it to the upholsterer’s and have it renovated.”