He held out a dirty, crumpled piece of paper.
Phil took it from him and looked it over casually.
“It was twisted up, almost to the size of a marble.”
Suddenly Phil’s face took on an ashy hue and he gasped.
“Great God; I––I–––”
He jumped up, then caught at the bed-post for support as he tried to gather his wits and to quiet his wildly thumping heart.
“You––you–––It is all right, Jim,” he stammered. “It is of no importance.”
Jim rose and placed his arm round his chum.
“Phil, old chap,––it isn’t any good to pretend. I’m an interfering lout, I know, and I shouldn’t have done it. I have made out all that it says, and, oh God!––but 283 you’re a game sport––even if you have been a darned fool about it.”
Phil stood helpless.