“You look as if you’d been drawn through a knot hole, and a small one at that. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” and Tom tried to laugh it off. “I didn’t sleep very well, that’s all.”
“For that matter, neither did I.”
“Get out! I heard you snoring away like a boiler blowing off steam.”
“Then I must have been tired. I never snore unless I am. Wow! ouch! Decameron’s Prothonotary!”
Sid made a face that indicated intense anguish and put his hand to his side as he turned over in bed.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom anxiously.
“Strained my side when I slid for second base that time. I didn’t notice it yesterday, but it hurts like sin now. Guess I’ll have to cut lectures to-day and stay in bed.”
“What excuse will you give?”
“Oh, I’ll say—no, I won’t, either,” declared Sid with a sudden change of decision. “I can’t say it was playing baseball that laid me up or Moses will ask me to cut out the ball. I’ve got to suffer. I know what I’ll do. I’ll limp in chapel and on my way to lectures. I’m not prepared in trig, anyhow, and maybe they’ll let me off easy. I’m sure to slump in Latin, but maybe Pitchfork will have mercy on a gladiator who was willing to die for Cæsar.”