“No, indeed. I don’t know what his object is, nor why he should invite me. He and Langridge are a pair, and they can stick together,” and Tom wadded up the invitation and threw it into the waste basket.
“Say, if you’re going to get the arnica, I wish you’d get a move on,” implored Sid, who was stretched out on the sofa. “This hurts me worse than not knowing my Virgil when I’m called on in Pitchfork’s class.”
“Then it can’t hurt very much,” said Phil. “Let’s see it.”
Sid held out a hand, the thumb of which was beginning to swell.
“Why don’t you use some of my liniment instead of arnica for it?” proposed Phil. “It’s just the stuff for a sprain. Here, pour some on your hand,” and Phil, whose left arm was in a sling, handed Sid the bottle from the table. Sid poured a generous quantity on his thumb.
“Look out for the rug!” exclaimed Tom. “Do you want to spoil it?” for the liniment was dripping from Sid’s hand.
“Spoil it? Spoil this tattered and torn specimen of a fake oriental?” queried Sid with a laugh. “Say, if we spread molasses on it the thing couldn’t look much worse than it does. I’ve a good notion to strike for a new one.”
“Don’t,” begged Phil. “We don’t have to clean our feet when we come in now, and if we had a new rug we’d feel obliged to.”
“All right, have it your own way,” remarked Tom. “But you’ve got enough liniment on there for two thumbs. Here, give me the bottle, and rub what’s on your hand in where the swelling is.”
Sid extended the bottle to Tom. Phil, who was holding the cork, endeavored to insert it during the transfer. The result was a fumble, the phial slipped from Sid’s grasp, Tom made a grab for it, but missed, and Phil, with only one good hand, could do nothing. The bottle crashed to the floor and broke, the liniment running about in little rivulets from a sort of central lake.