TOM IS JEALOUS
"Ha! I knew you were up to some trick!" cried Professor Tines. "You are
no student of Randall College at all! I'll take you to Proctor Zane, and
he'll give you in charge of an officer! Perhaps you are a thief, and
have stolen that camera!"
"It's mine!" exclaimed Sid, unable to understand the action of Tom and
Phil. "I tell you I am Henderson, professor!"
"Indeed! Then how do you account for Parsons and Clinton failing to
identify you?"
"That's a--a joke!" Sid was forced to say.
"Ha! I knew there was some trick in it! So you admit you were trying to
play a joke on me in having them identify you?"
"No, no!" cried Sid, alarmed at this misunderstanding. "They were joking
when they said I wasn't Henderson."
"Well, who are you, then?"
"Why, I _am_ Henderson. This is my camera."
"Don't make it any worse, young man," warned the teacher sternly. "Come
with me to the proctor!"
There was no help for it, Sid had to go. He might have broken away from
the professor, but he did not like to try it, for Mr. Tines seemed very
determined, and the ensuing tumult would bring into the corridor a
throng of students, so that Sid would never hear the last of the joke
that had turned on him. He went along quietly, thankful that it was
dark, and that no one would see him in the walk across the campus to the
proctor's quarters.
"Here is a young man--a thief, if nothing worse, perhaps--whom I caught
in the corridor of the west dormitory," explained Professor Tines to Mr.
Zane a little later as he stood with his quarry before the proctor. Sid
caught a glimpse of himself in a looking glass in the brightly-lighted
office.
"Oh--I--do I look like that?" he gasped as he saw his slimy trousers,
and his face, which was like unto that of a chimney sweep, his hands
also being covered with the swamp mud.
"You certainly do!" said Professor Tines heartily. "Are you now ready to
confess, before we send for an officer?"
"But I tell you I'm Henderson!" insisted the luckless Sid. "It was only
a joke when Phil and Tom went back on me. I tell you I'm Henderson, of
the sophomore class!"
The proctor glanced sharply at him. Mr. Zane had good eyes and a memory
for voices, which Professor Tines lacked.
"I believe it _is_ Henderson," spoke the proctor at length. "But where
in the world have you been?"
"Photographing a fox," explained Sid, and then he told the whole story.
A dawning light of belief came into the countenance of Professor Tines,
and when Sid had been allowed to wash his face and hands, there was no
further doubt as to his identity.
"Well," remarked the proctor, trying hard not to laugh as he glanced at
the student's mud-encased trousers, "I would advise you to wear rubber
boots when you go on your next nature excursion."
"I will," promised Sid. "May I go to my room now?"
"I suppose so," rasped out the Latin instructor. "But--ahem! I am not
altogether sure yet that you are not up to some mischief."
"I'll develop the picture of the fox and show you!" exclaimed Sid
eagerly. "And here are some snails I picked up in the swamp," and with
that he plunged his hand into the pocket of his coat and drew out a lot
of the slimy creatures. Some of them dropped on the floor and started
to crawl away, leaving a shimmering track.
"That will do! The evidence is sufficient, I think!" exclaimed the
proctor, who had a horror of such things. "Take them away at once, Mr.
Henderson!" And Sid went down on his knees to gather up the _helix
molluscæ_, while Professor Tines hurried from the room.
"Do you want to see the picture of the fox?" asked Sid as he arose, his
hands filled with snails.
"No, thank you," answered the proctor. "I'll take your word for it, Mr.
Henderson. But please be more careful," and he looked at the mud spots
on his rug.
A little later Sid burst into the room where his two chums were pouring
over their books.
"Say! What in blazes did you fellows go back on me that way for?" he
demanded.
"What's that? He speaks in riddles!" said Phil softly. "Why, Siddie," he
went on, as a mother might chide a little boy, "wherever have you been?
You're all mud! Oh, such a state as your trousers are in! Whatever will
papa say, Siddie?"
"What a dirty beast!" cried Tom in simulated horror.
Poor Sid looked from one to the other.
"Why did you tell Pitchfork I wasn't Henderson?" he demanded savagely.
"Tell Pitchfork you weren't yourself?" asked Phil, as if he had never
heard of such a thing.
"What do you mean?" inquired Tom innocently. "We haven't seen you since
we left you going after the fox, and we got tired and came home."
"Do you mean to tell me," began Sid, "that you didn't----" And then he
stopped, at the grins that appeared on the faces of his chums. "What's
the use?" he asked wearily. "All right, I'll get even with you two," he
concluded as he put his camera away and proceeded to change his clothes.
But a little later, when he had developed the picture of the fox, and
found it to be a fine one, he forgot his anger and the ordeal he had
gone through, for Sid was a true naturalist.
It was approaching the date for the great game with Boxer Hall, and the
football squad was practicing with a fierce energy; for, more than any
other contest, they wanted to win that one.
The team was fairly "on edge and trained to the second," as Holly Cross
said. They had won the two games that came before the final one, and now
but two weeks elapsed before they would clash with Boxer Hall on the
Randall gridiron.
"Are you going to the _Kappa Delta_ dance?" asked Phil of Tom one night,
referring to an annual affair of one of the Greek letter fraternities.
"Sure," replied Tom. "I think we need something like that to get us in
shape for the game with Boxer Hall. You're going, I suppose?"
"Of course. Who you going to take?"
"Haven't quite made up my mind yet. Are you going with a dame?"
"Sure."
"Who, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Madge Tyler," answered Phil, and he seemed to be very busy arranging
his tie.
"Madge Tyler?" repeated Tom quickly.
"Yes. Any objections?"
Tom was silent a moment. He was struggling with a strange sensation.
"Well," asked Phil, turning and facing his chum--Sid was out of the
room--"any objections?"
"Of course not," answered Tom slowly. "I took her last term, and--er--I
was rather counting on----"
"You were going to take her again this year," interrupted Phil, "but you
waited too long. Sorry I cut you out, old man. No hard feelings, I
hope?"
"No--no," answered Tom hesitatingly. "Of course not," he added more
genially. "I was too slow, that's all."
"You'll have to ask some one else," went on Phil. "Are you sure you
don't mind, old chap?" and he came over and stood beside his chum.
Tom did not answer for a few seconds. There was a strained quality in
his voice when he replied, as cheerfully as he could:
"Of course not. You're first in war, first in football, and first
in--the affairs with the ladies," he paraphrased.
"Whom will you take?" persisted Phil.
"Nobody!" exclaimed Tom, as he got up from the couch and started from
the room. "I'm not going to the affair, after all," and he slammed the
door as he went out.
"Whew!" whistled Phil. "Tom's jealous!"