He arose suddenly, and made as if to look over Sid’s shoulder.
“No, you don’t!” cried the writer, dodging away from the table. “You let me alone, and I’ll let you alone.”
“By Jove! He’s writing verse!” cried Tom. “Well, if that isn’t the limit, fellows! Say, he has got ’em bad!”
“Oh, you make me tired!” snapped Sid, as he stuffed the paper, over which he had been laboring, into his pocket. “Can’t a fellow write a letter? I’m going down in the reading room.”
And before they could stop him he had slipped out.
“Sid certainly is going some,” remarked Phil. “The germ is working. Well, I’m going to turn in. I’m dead tired and I expect I’ll sleep like a top.”
“Dutch wanted us to come to his room to-night,” remarked Frank. “He’s got some feed.”
“Not for me,” spoke Tom. “I’m not going to risk anything that Dutch will set up, when the games are so near. He’d feed us on Welsh rabbit and cocoanut macaroons if he had his way. Not that he wouldn’t eat ’em himself, but they don’t go with training diet.”
“Well, I’m out of it, so I’ll take a chance,” remarked Frank.