“You’re no worse off than the rest of us,” declared Frank, sharply. “We feel it just as badly as you do, Tom.”
“You don’t act so. You’ve been sitting here as mum as oysters!” came the bitter retort. It was the nearest in a long time Tom had come to a breach with his chums.
“What was the good of talking?” asked Sid. “Talking and shooting off a lot of hot air isn’t going to make the varsity eight the head of the river; is it?”
“No, but you might find some way of doing it if you said something, instead of acting like Sphinxes,” snapped Tom.
“I wonder if that chair can be fixed?” broke in Phil, anxious to turn the subject, for matters were being strained to the breaking point. “You sure did come down with an awful crash, Tom. Poor old chair! I’m glad it wasn’t one of our good ones.”
“Good ones!” cried Tom, who had bid in the steamer affair at the auction, much against the wishes of his chums. “Say, this has those other ancient arks beaten a mile,” and stooping over he began trying to solve the twisted puzzle of the arms, legs and foot-rest that seemed to have gotten into an inextricable tangle.
“Oh, I give it up!” he cried, after several unsuccessful efforts. “We’ll let one of the janitors play doctor,” and he laughed.
“That sounds better!” exclaimed Phil.
“It would sound better if we had won to-day,” went on Tom. “Why in the name of the binomial theorem couldn’t we?”