“Sure; yet he doesn’t smoke.”
“No, and that’s the funny part of it. Then there’s the fact of him having no money to-day, though he had a roll yesterday.”
There was silence in the small apartment, while the clock ticked on. Tom, somewhat exhausted by his struggle with his collar, sank down on the ancient sofa, a cloud of dust, like incense, arising around him.
“Cæsar’s legions! My clothes will be a sight!” he cried, jumping up, and searching frantically for a whisk broom.
“Easy!” cried Phil, “I just had my tie in the right shape, and you’ve knocked it all squee-gee!” for Tom in his excitement had collided with his chum.
They managed to get dressed after a while—rather a long while.
“Come on,” said Tom, as he took a final look at himself in the glass, for though he was not too much devoted to dress or his own good looks, much adornment of their persons must be excused on the part of the talented pitcher and his chum, on the score of the pretty girls with whom they were to spend the evening.
“I’m ready,” announced Phil. “Shall we leave a light for Sid?”
“I don’t know. No telling when he’ll be in. Do you know, Phil, it seems rotten mean to mention it, and I only do it to see if you have the same idea I have, but I shouldn’t be surprised if old Sid was gambling.”
“Gambling!”