“Yes. Look how he’s sneaked off these last two nights, not saying where he’s going, and acting so funny about it. Then coming in late, all perfumed with tobacco, and getting caught, and not having any money and—and—Oh, well, hang it all! I know it won’t go any further, or I shouldn’t mention it; but doesn’t it look queer?”
Phil did not reply for a moment. He glanced at Tom, as if to fathom his earnestness, and as the two stood there, looking around their common home, marked by the absence of Sid, the fussy little alarm clock seemed to be repeating over and over again the ugly word—“gambler—gambler—gambler.”
“Well?” asked Tom softly.
“I hate to say it, but I’m afraid you’re right,” replied Phil. “Sid, of all chaps, though. It’s fierce!” and then the two went out.
Tom and Phil called at the residence of Miss Harrison’s relatives for Madge and Ruth. Tom tried, tactfully enough, to get Miss Harrison to come to the theatricals with himself and Ruth, but the blue-eyed girl pleaded a headache (always a lady’s privilege), and said she would stay at home. Sid’s name was not mentioned. Then the four young people went off, leaving a rather disconsolate damsel behind.
Sid was in bed when Tom and Phil returned, and he did not say anything, or exhibit any signs of being awake, so they did not disturb him, refraining from even talking in whispers of the jolly time they had had. There was a strong smell of tobacco about Sid’s clothes, but his chums said nothing of this.
The next day Sid was moody and disconsolate. He wrote several letters, tearing them up, one after the other, but finally he seemed to hit on one that pleased him, and went out to mail it. Amid the torn scraps about his desk Phil and Tom could not help seeing several which began variously “My dear Miss Harrison,” “Dear Miss Harrison,” “Dear friend,” and “Esteemed friend.”
“Trying to square himself,” remarked Tom.