“Wake up, you sleepy cuss, and answer to your name!”
“I—I don’t think I was asleep,” murmured Phillip.
“Well, you’ve got another think. I was telling Guy that I met the famous John North last night. Laurence took me over to his room in Little’s. I told him about you and he says he’s called on you.”
“Called on me?” repeated Phillip. “Did he say when? I reckon I was out. I’m sorry.”
“Why, that’s the funny part of it,” answered Chester. “I said I’d met you, and he asked kind of dryly whether I’d found you belligerent. I told him no, and said that you’d spoken of expecting a call from him. He said he had called and that you and he had had a very interesting talk. He looked so darned queer, though, that I thought maybe he was stringing me.”
Phillip looked puzzled for an instant; then a great dismay overspread his countenance and he gripped Chester by the arm.
“What does he look like?” he cried.
“Why, he—— Say, what is this—melodrama?”
“No, no; go on. Tell me!”
“‘Give me the chee-ild!’” exclaimed Chester, tragically. Then, observing Phillip’s expression of anxiety, he went on soberly: “He’s about six foot tall, I guess; about three foot broad; he has—— Why, hang it, there he is, crossing the field—the fellow talking with the head coach; see?”