Silence was the atmosphere of the apartment for a few minutes—that is comparative silence, though the pushing of Tom’s needle through the leather, squeaking as he forced it, mingled with the ticking of the clock.
“I guess we can count on a good nine this year,” observed Tom judicially, apropos of the glove repairing.
“It’s up to you, cap,” remarked Sid, for Tom had been elected to that coveted honor.
“You mean it’s up to you fellows,” retorted the pitcher-captain. “I want some good batters, that’s what I want. It’s all right enough to have a team that can hold down Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute, but you can’t win games by shutting out the other fellows. Runs are what count, and to get runs you’ve got to bat to win.”
“Listen to the oracle!” mocked Phil, but with no malice in his voice. “You want to do better than three hundred with the stick, Sid.”
“Physician, heal thyself!” quoted Tom, smiling. “I think we will have a good——”
He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor. Instinctively the three lads started, then, as a glance at the clock showed that they were not burning lights beyond the prescribed hour, there was a breath of relief.
“Who’s coming?” asked Tom.
“Woodhouse, Bricktop or some of the royal family,” was Phil’s opinion.
“No,” remarked Sid quietly, and there was that in his voice which made his chums look curiously at him, for it seemed as if he expected some one. A moment later there came a rap on the door, and then, with a seeming knowledge of the nerve-racking effect this always has on college students, a voice added: