[CHAPTER XXIX]
AN ALARM IN THE NIGHT
“What are you doing, Sid?”
“Writing a letter.”
“Of course. I can see that without glasses. But who to, if it’s not a personal question?” persisted Tom tantalizingly, as he stretched out on the old couch, and watched his chum busy with pen and ink. Phil and Frank were making more or less successful pretenses at study.
“Well—er—it is sort of personal,” replied Sid, and Tom noticed that the writer got red back of the ears. That is always regarded as a sure sign.
“My! You’ve got it bad,” persisted Tom.
“Got what bad—what do you mean?”
“As if you didn’t know! You saw her Sunday, and here it is only Wednesday, and you’re writing. I say, that’s against the union rules you know; how about it fellows?”
“That’s right,” agreed Frank.
“And the punishment is that you’ll have to read the letter to us,” went on Tom. “Failing to do that we will read it for ourselves.”