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.