“Who’s that? What’s the matter?” demanded Tom’s team-mate.
“Oh, I just woke up—can’t seem to get to sleep again. I don’t feel very good,” answered Tom.
“Take some of that medicine the girls sent,” advised Sid. “It’s a harmless enough tonic, and it may do you good—send you to sleep. You don’t want to get knocked out of your rest.”
“Guess I will,” agreed Tom. There was light enough coming in through the transom over the door to the hall, to enable him to see the bottle of medicine on the shelf. He drew the cork, poured out a dose and swallowed it with a little water. The taste was not very pleasant, but he did not mind that.
“Count sheep jumping over a stone fence, and you’ll drop off in no time,” advised Sid, as Tom went back to bed. Sid was soon slumbering again.
But, somehow or other, neither the counting of sheep nor any of the other time-honored methods of wooing Morpheus availed Tom. His restlessness increased, and he was aware of a growing distress in his stomach.
Suddenly a sharp pain wrenched him, and, in spite of himself, he cried out.
“What’s the matter?” asked Phil.
“I—I don’t know,” faltered Tom. “I’m sick, I guess. Oh, say, this is fierce!” he cried, as another spasm racked him.
Phil was out of bed at once, and switched on the light. One look at Tom was enough for him.