“Without baseball?” asked Tom.
“N-o—no, of course not without being on the team. But two weeks are soon over.”
“Not soon enough,” and Tom darted away.
“Where you going?”
“Back and study. I can’t afford to fall behind in my work.”
“My, but aren’t you the grinder, though!” exclaimed Sid, but there was something of envy in his tone for all that. He went into recitation, while Tom continued on to their common room. He was walking along the path that led past Booker Memorial Chapel and paused for a moment to admire the effect of the early sun shining through a stained glass window. The combination of colors was perfect, and Tom, as he stood and looked at a depiction of a biblical scene which represented the Good Samaritan ministering to the stranger, felt somehow that it was a rôle that he himself had had a part in.
Then came a revulsion of feeling.
“Oh, pshaw! You’re getting sentimental in your old age!” he exclaimed half aloud. “You’ve got to have your share of hard knocks in this world, and you’ve got to take what comes. But it’s queer,” he went on in his self-communing, “how Langridge seems to be getting mixed up with me. This is twice I’ve had to suffer on his account. I’d like—yes, hang it all, what’s the use of pretending to yourself—I’d like to take it out of him—in some way. It’s not fair—that’s what!”
The thought of Langridge brought another sort of musing to Tom. He saw a certain fair face, with pouting lips and bright, dancing eyes, a face framed in a fluffy mass of hair, and he fancied he could hear a little laugh, a mocking little laugh.
“Worse and worse,” growled Tom to himself. “You’re getting dopy. Better go take a long walk.”