Though he did not refer to the scene of the previous evening, when he greeted his chums next morning, Sid, by his manner showed that he realized it. There was a tender gruffness in his words and actions, and he seemed so contrite, and so anxious to make amends that Phil and Tom did not have it in their hearts to stand out against him.
“A fine day for practice,” observed Tom, as he sprang out of bed, at the first summons of the alarm clock.
“Cæsar’s battle-axe! What’s going to happen?” demanded Phil, lazily turning over. “You’re up, Tom.”
“Sure. I’m behind in my psychology work, and I’ve got to attend a stiff lecture this morning and stand for a quizz afterward. I’m afraid I’ll slump.”
“I’ll help you,” came unexpectedly from Sid. “I’ve been all over that stuff, and I know what Pitchfork will try to stick you on. Get something on, and I’ll help you bone.”
This was unexpected on Sid’s part, but Tom was none the less grateful, and soon the two were delving deep into problems of mind and matter, while Phil protested that it was against all rules, and that he wanted to sleep.
Tom did well in the “quizz,” and this made him more than ever anxious to help Sid in his trouble. But the second baseman made no reference to it, and in practice that afternoon he did better than in several previous days at his stick work.
“We’ll eat up Dodville,” prophesied Tom exultantly. “That’s the way to lambast ’em, Sid!”
But Randall didn’t “eat up” Dodville. They beat the preparatory school nine, as indeed they should have done, but the score was no great showing of the abilities of Randall.