“Going out this evening?” asked Phil.
“No. Guess not,” was the rather short answer. “I’ve got to do some studying. What have you fellows got on the carpet?”
“Rest,” answered Tom, and after supper he returned to the apartment, and stretched out on the creaking sofa, while Phil occupied the easy chair. Sid was at his desk writing, when a knock came at the door.
The deposed second baseman started, and half arose. Then he sat down again.
“Well, aren’t some of you going to answer it?” asked Tom. “I’m too tired to move.”
“Same here,” added Phil, but, as he was nearer the portal than Sid, he got up, with much groaning, and opened the door. Wallops stood there.
“A message for Mr. Henderson,” he announced, and he handed Phil a letter.
“Here! Give it to me!” cried Sid, almost snatching it from Phil’s fingers.
“I was just going to, old man,” was the gentle answer, and it seemed as if Sid was afraid his chum would see the writing on the envelope.
Sid tore open the epistle, read it at a glance, and tore it up, scattering the fragments in his waste paper basket. Then he strode over to his closet, and got out his coat and cap.