“Going out?” asked Phil, politely interested.
“Yes—I’ve got to,” muttered Sid.
Tom slowly arose from the old sofa, the boards on the back and front creaking dismally with the strain.
“Sid,” spoke Tom, and there was that in his voice which made Phil and Sid both look at the captain. “Sid, I’m going to make a last appeal to you.”
“No—don’t,” almost begged the second baseman, and he put up his arm, as though to ward off a blow. “Don’t, Tom, I—I can’t stand it.”
“You’ve got to!” insisted Tom, almost fiercely. “I’ve stood this long enough. It’s not fair to yourself—not fair to the nine.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” and Sid tried to speak calmly.
“Yes, you do,” and by this time Tom was on his feet, and had walked over toward the door. “Yes, you do know. You received a note just now. There’s no use in me pretending I don’t know what it is, for I do.”
Sid started.