CHAPTER XV

PHIL SAVES WALLOPS

They were talking the game over in their room--Phil, Sid and Tom. Sid, from the effects of the strong liquid which Gerhart had substituted for the liniment, still had to carry his hand in a sling, but the fingers were slowly losing their stiffness.

"Where you fellows made a mistake," Sid was saying, as he moved about on the creaking old sofa to get into a more comfortable position, "where you fellows made a mistake was in not doing more kicking early in the game."

"Oh, I suppose you could have run things better than Phil did?" suggested Tom, not altogether pleasantly.

"Not better, but different. You should have tired them out, and then smashed their line all to pieces."

"It wasn't altogether such easy smashing as you would suppose, sitting and watching the game from the grandstand, was it, Tom?" came from Phil.

"Not exactly," responded the left-end, as he rubbed his shoulder, which he had bruised making a hard tackle. "They were as tough as nails. I suppose we did fairly well, considering everything."

"All but winning," spoke Sid drowsily. "You didn't do that, you know. Now be fair; did you?"

"Oh, cut it out, you old would-be philosopher!" cried Phil, twisting around in the easy chair to reach something to throw at his chum. All he could find was a newspaper, and he doubled that up. It missed Sid, and hitting an ink bottle on the mantle, broke the phial, the black fluid flowing down over the wall and on the carpet.

"That's a nice thing to do!" cried Tom. "Say, what do you want to make a rough house for? Isn't this den bad enough as it is, without you doing that?"

"I didn't mean to," answered Phil contritely.

"Look at the rug!" went on Tom, as the ink formed a black pool. "Pretty, isn't it?"

"We'll get the pattern changed if we keep on," murmured Sid, without opening his eyes. "There's the liniment spot, now the ink spot, and the grease spots left by the former occupants. Maybe we ought to get a new rug, fellows."

"Not this term," said Tom emphatically. "I've run over my money as it is, and I don't like to ask dad for more."

"I notice you had some to spend for flowers to-night," remarked Phil.

On the way home from the game Tom had stopped in a florist's in Fairview and given an order, while Phil remained outside.

"You don't mean to say that Tom has been sending flowers to some girl?" demanded Sid, sitting up.

"Well, you can draw your own conclusions," replied Phil. "He didn't bring 'em home to decorate _our_ room, that's sure."

"Worse and some more, too," murmured Sid. "What are you coming to, Tom?" He looked reproachfully at his chum. Then he shook his head. "This girl business!" he spluttered. Then, as his eyes gazed about the room, he caught sight of the little flag of Fairview colors which Ruth Clinton had given Tom. The latter had placed it partly behind a picture of a football game. "Where did that come from?" demanded Sid, getting up from the couch with an effort and striding over to the offending emblem.

"It's mine!" declared Tom. "Ruth--I mean Phil's sister--gave it to me."

For an instant Sid looked at his chum. Then his gaze traveled to the picture of the girl--the two girls--for that of Madge was beside the likeness of Ruth--and the former first-baseman sighed.

"Well," he said, "I s'pose there's no hope for it, but I wish I'd gone in with some fellows who weren't crazy on the girl question. First thing I know you fellows will have this a regular boudoir; and then where will I be? I expect any day now you'll be wanting to get rid of this old couch and chair, and get some mission furniture, so that you can have a five o'clock tea here, and invite some girls and chaperons."

"Suppose we do?" asked Phil, who for some reason sided with Tom.

"Well, all I've got to say is that I give up," and Sid, with a helpless look, flung himself down on the sofa and turned his back on his chums. "Next you know you'll be playing tennis or croquet instead of football. You make me sick! I tell you what it is, if you put any more of those tomfool decorations, like flags and photographs, in this room, I'm going to quit!" and Sid spoke earnestly.

"Aw, forget it, you old misanthropic specimen of a misogynist!" exclaimed Phil with a laugh. "You'll be there yourself some day, and then you'll see how it is."

"Say, you talk as if you had a girl, too!" cried Sid, sitting up again and looking fixedly at Phil.

"Maybe I have," was the noncommittal answer.

"Then you've gone back on me, too," was what Sid said, as he pretended to go to sleep.

It was quiet in the room for a while, each lad busy with his thoughts. Who shall say what they were? One thing is certain--that the gazes of Tom and Phil often traveled to the wall on which were the photographs of two girls--Madge and Ruth. Tom looked at both; but Phil--well, did you ever know a fellow, no matter how nice a sister he had, to care to steal surreptitious glances at her picture? Did you? Well, that's all I'm going to say now.

The fussy little alarm clock ticked monotonously on, as if anxious to get its work done. Still neither of the three chums spoke. Occasionally Sid would shift his position, but he did not open his eyes. Tom sometimes looked at the liniment stain in the carpet, and then at the ink spot.

"It's a wonder you wouldn't get a blotter and sop up some of that writing fluid," suggested Phil to Tom at last.

"Why don't you do it yourself?" was the retort. "You knocked it over."

"I'm too comfortable," murmured Phil from the depths of the chair.

"Humph!" grunted Tom. Then there was silence once more.

"How's your hand, Sid?" asked Tom, when the clock had ticked off what seemed to the lads about a million strokes.

"A little better. That's the worst thing I ever had happen to me," and Sid looked at his stiffened fingers. "I don't know what you fellows are going to do, but I'm going to bed!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I'm sleepy."

"Come on out and take a walk," proposed Tom to Phil. "I'm stiff and lame. Maybe I can walk it off. Then we'll take a hot bath in the gym and turn in."

"That sounds good," agreed Phil. "I'll go you."

They left Sid undressing and went out, it not being a proscribed hour. After a brisk walk around the campus they started for the gymnasium. As they neared it they heard voices coming from the direction of Biology Hall, a small building situated to the right of their dormitory.

"Now, then, hold him, Gerhart, while I clip him two or three good ones!" they heard some one say, and immediately after that came in pleading tones:

"Oh, please don't hit me again, Mr. Langridge. I did the best I could for you."

"The best, you little rat! You didn't get the stuff I sent you for!" exclaimed Langridge angrily.

"Because they wouldn't sell me the whisky," was the answer. "Oh, Mr. Langridge, please don't hit me!"

"It's Wallops!" exclaimed Phil. "Wallops, the little messenger. What's that brute Langridge up to now?"

"Seems as if he sent Wallops after liquor, and he didn't get it," said Tom. "I hear he's been up to that trick."

"The dirty cad!" whispered Phil.

A moment later there was the sound of a blow, and it was followed by a cry of pain.

"Come on!" cried Phil to Tom, and the two strode around the corner of the building. They saw Gerhart holding Wallops, who was a lad small for his age, while Langridge was punching him in the face, accompanying each blow with the remark:

"That will teach you to play the sneak trick on me. You drank that stuff yourself!"

"Indeed I didn't!" cried the messenger. "They wouldn't let me have it. There was a new man behind the bar."

"That's a likely story. Hold him tight, Gerhart; I'm going to paste him another."

"You hound!" cried Phil, his voice shrill with rage, and an instant later he had fairly leaped beside the bully. With one hand he thrust Langridge aside, and then, with a straight left on the jaw, he sent him to the ground with a thud.