CHAPTER XXIX

AN ALARM IN THE NIGHT

“What are you doing, Sid?”

“Writing a letter.”

“Of course. I can see that without glasses. But who to, if it’s not a personal question?” persisted Tom tantalizingly, as he stretched out on the old couch, and watched his chum busy with pen and ink. Phil and Frank were making more or less successful pretenses at study.

“Well--er--it _is_ sort of personal,” replied Sid, and Tom noticed that the writer got red back of the ears. That is always regarded as a sure sign.

“My! You’ve got it bad,” persisted Tom.

“Got what bad--what do you mean?”

“As if you didn’t know! You saw her Sunday, and here it is only Wednesday, and you’re writing. I say, that’s against the union rules you know; how about it fellows?”

“That’s right,” agreed Frank.

“And the punishment is that you’ll have to read the letter to us,” went on Tom. “Failing to do that we will read it for ourselves.”

He arose suddenly, and made as if to look over Sid’s shoulder.

“No, you don’t!” cried the writer, dodging away from the table. “You let me alone, and I’ll let you alone.”

“By Jove! He’s writing verse!” cried Tom. “Well, if that isn’t the limit, fellows! Say, he has got ’em bad!”

“Oh, you make me tired!” snapped Sid, as he stuffed the paper, over which he had been laboring, into his pocket. “Can’t a fellow write a letter? I’m going down in the reading room.”

And before they could stop him he had slipped out.

“Sid certainly is going some,” remarked Phil. “The germ is working. Well, I’m going to turn in. I’m dead tired and I expect I’ll sleep like a top.”

“Dutch wanted us to come to his room to-night,” remarked Frank. “He’s got some feed.”

“Not for me,” spoke Tom. “I’m not going to risk anything that Dutch will set up, when the games are so near. He’d feed us on Welsh rabbit and cocoanut macaroons if he had his way. Not that he wouldn’t eat ’em himself, but they don’t go with training diet.”

“Well, I’m out of it, so I’ll take a chance,” remarked Frank.

“Don’t take Sid,” Tom called after the big Californian. “He’s on training diet, too. Dutch has the digestion of an ostrich, and it won’t hurt him.”

“All right,” Frank retorted, and then Tom, together with Phil, prepared to turn in.

Tom was thinking of many things. Of his father’s troubles, of the possible outcome of the contests, and of his own chances. For the first time since he had begun to train extra hard, because of the necessity of taking Shambler’s place, Tom felt a little less “up to the mark” than usual. He was more tired than he had been in several weeks, and his stomach did not feel just right.

“I mustn’t overtrain,” he thought. “I can’t afford to go stale.”

He did not know what time it was when he awoke, but it must have been quite late, for Sid and Frank had been in some time. The unpleasant feeling in Tom’s stomach had increased, and he did not know whether it was hunger or indigestion.

“Guess I worked a little bit too hard to-day,” he reflected. “I’ll be all right in the morning.”

But he could not get to sleep again. He tossed restlessly on his pillow, first trying one side of the bed, and then the other.

“Hang it all, what’s the matter with me?” he asked himself. “Guess I’ll get up and take a drink of water.”

He moved quietly, so as not to disturb any of his chums, but Sid, who was a light sleeper, heard him.

“Who’s that? What’s the matter?” demanded Tom’s team-mate.

“Oh, I just woke up--can’t seem to get to sleep again. I don’t feel very good,” answered Tom.

“Take some of that medicine the girls sent,” advised Sid. “It’s a harmless enough tonic, and it may do you good--send you to sleep. You don’t want to get knocked out of your rest.”

“Guess I will,” agreed Tom. There was light enough coming in through the transom over the door to the hall, to enable him to see the bottle of medicine on the shelf. He drew the cork, poured out a dose and swallowed it with a little water. The taste was not very pleasant, but he did not mind that.

“Count sheep jumping over a stone fence, and you’ll drop off in no time,” advised Sid, as Tom went back to bed. Sid was soon slumbering again.

But, somehow or other, neither the counting of sheep nor any of the other time-honored methods of wooing Morpheus availed Tom. His restlessness increased, and he was aware of a growing distress in his stomach.

Suddenly a sharp pain wrenched him, and, in spite of himself, he cried out.

“What’s the matter?” asked Phil.

“I--I don’t know,” faltered Tom. “I’m sick, I guess. Oh, say, this is fierce!” he cried, as another spasm racked him.

Phil was out of bed at once, and switched on the light. One look at Tom was enough for him.

“Boy, you’re sick!” he declared. “I’m going to call the doctor. You need looking after!”

“Oh, I guess I’ll be all right in a little while. I took some of that new medicine, and----”

Another spasm of pain prevented Tom from continuing, and hastened Phil’s decision. He slipped on some garments, awakened Sid and Frank, and was soon communicating with Proctor Zane, who at once summoned Dr. Marshall, the physician connected with Randall.

The medical man came in at once, stopping only to slip on a bathrobe.

“What have you been eating--or taking?” he demanded of Tom, as he felt of the youth’s pulse, and examined him.

“Nothing but some of that Smith, Brown & Robinson’s Tonic,” groaned Tom, motioning toward the medicine bottle. Sid quickly explained about it, handing the phial to the physician. The latter smelled of the mixture, tasted it gingerly and then exclaimed:

“No wonder you’re sick, if you took that stuff!”

“Why, I’ve often taken it,” asserted Sid. “It did me good.”

“Not ‘doped’ as this is,” declared Dr. Marshall. “I know this preparation. It is very good, but this has been tampered with. There’s enough ‘dope’ in there to make a score of you boys sick. Throw the stuff away, or, no, hold on, let me have it. I’ll look into this. There’s been underhand work somewhere. You say some girl friends sent it to you?”

“We thought so,” spoke Sid, “but if it’s been meddled with, of course, they didn’t. I begin to suspect something now.”

“Well, talk about it later,” advised the doctor crisply. “I’ve got a sick lad to look after now. Some of you get me a lot of hot water. I’ve got to use a stomach pump,” and he mixed Tom some medicine, while Sid hurried to rouse the housekeeper.