“I thought not. Report to Dr. Churchill directly after chapel,” and the proctor, by the light of a small pocket electric lamp he carried, began to enter Sid’s name in his book. As he did so Tom and Phil could see the watch-dog of the college gate gaze sharply at their chum. Then Mr. Zane, putting out his hand, caught hold of Sid’s coat.
“Are they going to fight?” asked Tom in a hoarse whisper. “Sid must be crazy!”
A moment later came the proctor’s voice.
“Ha, Mr. Henderson, I thought I smelled liquor on you! I am not deceived. What have you in that pocket?”
“Noth—nothing, sir,” stammered Sid.
There was a momentary struggle, and the proctor pulled something from an inner pocket of Sid’s coat. By the gleam of the electric lamp, Tom and Phil could see that it was a bottle—a flask of the kind usually employed to carry intoxicants—broad and flat, to fit in the pocket.
“Ha! Mr. Henderson, this is serious!” exclaimed the proctor. “Trying to smuggle liquor into the college! Come with me to my room at once. This must be investigated. I will find out who are guilty with you, in this most serious breach of the rules. A bottle of liquor! Shameful! Come with me, sir! Dr. Churchill shall hear of this instantly!” and he took hold of Sid’s arm, as if he feared the student would escape.
“What do you think of that?” gasped Tom, as the full meaning of what he had seen came home to him.
“I give up,” answered Phil hopelessly. “Poor, old Sid!”