“Have you got the dink-bots?” was Sid’s gentle question, as he kept on carefully mounting a butterfly, one of the specimens he had captured during the summer, and had laid aside until a leisure moment to care for properly.
“I don’t know what it is, but I can’t get my mind down to study,” went on the quarter-back.
“You never could,” declared Tom, fortifying himself behind the sofa in case Phil should turn violent.
It was the evening after the Freshman game, and the three chums were in their study, after the meeting with the big Californian, as Frank Simpson had at once been dubbed. He had been directed to his room, which was on the floor above the apartment of our heroes, and he had gone off thanking them warmly.
“What’s the main trouble?” asked Tom.
“Oh, nothing in particular; but I guess I’m thinking of too many other things. There’s that little run-in I had with Langridge, seeing the game to-day, worrying about the clock and chair mystery, and wondering how our eleven is going to make out.”
“It’s enough to drive you to—cigarettes,” admitted Tom. “But I——”
“Say, I’ll tell you what let’s do,” broke in Sid. “Let’s invite that Simpson chap down here. He must be sort of lonesome, being a stranger here. I saw him going off to his room after grub, and none of the fellows spoke to him. Now, Randall isn’t that kind of a college. True, we don’t know much about him, but he looks the right sort. It won’t do any harm to have him down here and talk to him.”
“Sure not,” agreed Phil at once.