"Yes, I'm afraid Sid's in bad, in spite of what he says."
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the ticking of the alarm clock. Then Tom resumed:
"I wish we could help him. If he's got in with a bad crowd we ought to help save him. Poor old Sid, I wish----"
At that moment the door opened, and the chum whose troubles they were discussing walked in. He had heard what Tom had said, and a dull red flushed up under his brown skin.
"Were you fellows talking about me?" he asked hotly.
"We were just saying," began Phil, "that we couldn't----"
"I wish you fellows would mind your own business!" blurted out Sid. "I guess I can look after myself!" and he crossed the room and gazed moodily out of a window, into the darkness of the night, while the tick of the fussy little alarm clock seemed to echo and re-echo through the apartment.
There wasn't much said in the room of the chums after Sid had "gone off the handle," as Tom expressed it later. In fact there was not much that could be said. Phil shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Tom in a significant manner, and the captain of the nine shook his head discouragedly. Matters were getting worse, he thought, and he began to fear for the effect of Sid's trouble on the second baseman's ability as a player. But what could be done?
Though he did not refer to the scene of the previous evening, when he greeted his chums next morning, Sid, by his manner showed that he realized it. There was a tender gruffness in his words and actions, and he seemed so contrite, and so anxious to make amends that Phil and Tom did not have it in their hearts to stand out against him.
"A fine day for practice," observed Tom, as he sprang out of bed, at the first summons of the alarm clock.
"Cæsar's battle-axe! What's going to happen?" demanded Phil, lazily turning over. "You're up, Tom."
"Sure. I'm behind in my psychology work, and I've got to attend a stiff lecture this morning and stand for a quizz afterward. I'm afraid I'll slump."
"I'll help you," came unexpectedly from Sid. "I've been all over that stuff, and I know what Pitchfork will try to stick you on. Get something on, and I'll help you bone."
This was unexpected on Sid's part, but Tom was none the less grateful, and soon the two were delving deep into problems of mind and matter, while Phil protested that it was against all rules, and that he wanted to sleep.