“Out—on a night like this?” cried Tom. “You’re crazy. Listen to the rain! It’s pouring.”
“I can’t help it,” was the answer, as the lad began delving among his things for a raincoat.
“You’re crazy!” burst out Phil. “Can’t you wait until to-morrow to see her, old sport? My, but you’ve got ’em bad for a fellow who wouldn’t look at a girl all winter!”
“It isn’t a girl,” and Sid’s voice was still oddly calm. “I’ve got to go, that’s all—don’t bother me—you chaps.”
There was such a sudden snap to the last words—something so different from Sid’s usual gentle manner—that Phil and Tom looked at each other in surprise. Then, as if realizing what he had said, Sid added:
“It’s something I can’t talk about—just yet. I’ve got to go—I promised—that’s all. I’ll be back soon—I guess.”
“How about Proc. Zane?” asked Tom, for the proctor of Randall College was very strict.
“I’ll have to chance it,” replied Sid. “I’ve got about two hours yet, before locking-up time, and if I get caught—well my reputation’s pretty good,” and he laughed uneasily.
This was not the Sid that Tom and Phil—his closest chums—had known for the last three terms. It was a different Sid, and the note he received, and had so quickly destroyed, seemed to have worked the change in him. Slowly he drew on his raincoat and took up an umbrella. He paused a moment in the doorway. The rain was coming down harder than ever.
“So long,” said Sid, as he stepped into the corridor. He almost collided with another youth on the point of entering, and the newcomer exclaimed: