“He’s taking it hard,” observed Phil in a low voice.
Tom shook his head. “I can’t understand it,” he said.
Sid stalked into the room ahead of his chums and threw himself down on the old sofa, which creaked and groaned with his weight.
“Easy, old man,” called Phil good naturedly. “We’ve had that in the family for three terms, now, and it’s a regular heirloom. Don’t smash it for us. Remember what a time we had last term, patching it up, and moving it here from our old room?”
“Yes, and how Langridge was upset trying to get down stairs past us,” added Tom. “Have a little regard for the sofa, Sid.”
“Oh, hang the sofa!” burst out the lad, and then Tom and Phil knew it was useless to talk to him. Phil crossed the room softly and sat cautiously down in the old armchair. Tom looked at the alarm clock, and exclaimed:
“Jove! If it hasn’t stopped! Must be something wrong,” and he hurriedly wound it, and then started it by the gentle process of pounding it on the edge of the table. Soon the fussy clicking was again heard. “It’s all right,” went on the pitcher, in relieved tones. “Gave me heart disease at first. The clock is as much of a relic as the chair and sofa. But I’ve got to mend my glove again. It’s ripped in the same place. Rotten athletic goods they’re selling nowadays.”
There came a knock on the door, and Wallops, the messenger, who stood revealed as the portal was opened, announced:
“[Mr. Zane would like to see you, Mr. Henderson.]”
