“Why, is there any chance that you won’t?”
“Well, I’m pretty shaky in Latin, and Pitchfork has warned me that if I slump, it’s me to the bench for the rest of this term. I’m going over and see Bricktop Molloy. He’s a fiend at Latin. Rather study it than eat. He’s been coaching me lately, and I want to get the benefit of it. So I’ll just go and bone with him a bit.”
“Go ahead, old man. Wish I could help you, but I’ve got to look after my own rations. I’m none too safe.”
Sid went out and Tom was left alone with his books. But somehow he could not study. He took no sense of the printed page. There was an uneasiness in his mind and he could not put his thoughts into form.
“Hang it all!” he exclaimed. “I guess I’m thinking too much of baseball.”
He got up to take a turn in the corridors to change the current of his thoughts when there came a knock at the door.
“Come!” he cried, thinking it would prove to be some of his chums. The portal slowly swung and Tom, looking at the widening crack, saw the pale face of Langridge.
“May I come in?” asked the former pitcher, and his voice trembled.
“Of course,” answered Tom heartily. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”