“Yes, his father’s been sick for about a week or so, and he got leave from faculty. Went right after the game.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Hal worriedly. “He didn’t say anything to me about it. I wish I’d known. I want to see him about—something important.” To Ted’s discomfiture he seated himself on the window-seat and moodily stared at the lamp. “When’s he coming back?”
“Monday. He got permission to cut morning hours. I guess he will be on the twelve-forty-six.”
“That’ll be too late,” said Hal aggrievedly. “By Jove, that’s rotten! I don’t see why he couldn’t let folks know he was going.”
Evidently overwhelmed by the news, he made no move to depart. He was a good-looking fellow of sixteen, well-made, tall and lithe, with light hair and eyes and a fair complexion which even three months of baseball had failed to darken. In contrast, the boy in the Morris chair was a year younger, shorter, heavier, more compact, with dark eyes and hair and a face which, if not handsome, was rather attractive in spite of the fact that sun and weather had tanned it to the hue of leather and that the tip of the nose was peeling. Both boys were members of the School Nine, Ted being right fielder and Hal first-choice pitcher. They were not, however, very good friends. Ted thought Hal traded too much on his ability as a twirler. It was undeniable that he was an exceptionally good one, perhaps the best that the school had ever had, but in Ted’s opinion Hal would do well to forget the fact now and then. He didn’t understand what his room-mate, George Tempest, saw in Hal to admire; that is, beyond his playing. Naturally George, being captain of the team, would feel kindly toward a chap who so often pitched to victory, but he needn’t overdo it! Ted was fond of his room-mate and so it is possible that jealousy had something to do with his mild dislike of Hal Saunders.
Presently Hal raised his eyes from a frowning contemplation of his shoes and Ted was surprised at the trouble shown in his face. It was a most unusual thing for the self-satisfied, rather superior Hal Saunders to exhibit anything approaching discomposure. In spite of himself, Ted’s sympathies were touched. “Was it something about the Team?” he asked.
Hal shook his head. “No, it was—something——” He hesitated. Then: “I wanted to borrow some money from him.”
“Oh!” murmured Ted. It was, he reflected, a lot like Hal to make a fuss about an unimportant matter like that. Perhaps the other read the thought, for he suddenly said defensively:
“I’m in a dickens of a hole, Bowman, and I was pretty sure that George could help me out. Now I’m blessed if I know what to do!”
“Won’t Monday do?”