"Well," said Sid, as he blew his nose with seemingly needless violence, "I suppose you'll have to give up football now; for you'll go to Florida." "Yes," said Phil simply, "of course I shall go. I think I'll wire dad first, though, and tell him I'm going to start." "I'll take the message to the telegraph office for you," offered Tom eagerly. "No, let me go," begged Sid. "I can run faster than you, Tom." "That's a nice thing to say, especially when I'm going to try for end on the 'varsity eleven," said Tom a bit reproachfully. "Don't let Holly Cross or Coach Lighton hear you say that, or I'll be down and out. I'm none too good in my running, I know, but I'm going to practice." "Oh, I guess you'll make out all right," commented Phil. "I'm much obliged to you fellows. I guess I can take the message myself, though," and he sat down at the littered table, pushing the things aside, to write the dispatch. Tom and Sid said little when Phil went out to take the telegram to the office. The two chums, one on the old patched sofa and the other in the creaking chair, which at every movement sent up a cloud of dust from the ancient cushion, maintained a solemn silence. Tom did remark once: "Tough luck, isn't it?" To which Sid made reply: "That's what it is." But, then, to be understood, you don't need to talk much under such circumstances. In a little while footsteps were heard along the corridor. "Here he comes!" exclaimed Tom, and he arose from the sofa with such haste that the new boards, which Phil had put on to strengthen it, seemed likely to snap off. "Go easy on that, will you?" begged Sid. "Do you want to break it?" "No," answered Tom meekly, and he fell to arranging his books, a task which Sid supplemented by piling the sporting goods indiscriminately in a corner. They wanted to be busy when Phil came in. "Whew! You fellows are raising a terrible dust!" exclaimed Phil. He seemed more at his ease now. In grief there is nothing so diverting as action, and now that he had sent his telegram, and hoped to be able to see his mother shortly, it made the bad news a little easier to bear. "Yes," spoke Tom; "it's Sid. He raises a dust every time he gets into or out of that chair. I really think we ought to send it to the upholsterer's and have it renovated." "There'd be nothing left of it," declared Phil. "Better let well enough alone. It'll last for some years yet--as long as we are in Randall." "Did you send the message?" blurted out Tom. "Yes, and now I'll wait for an answer." "Is it--will they have to--I mean--of course there's some danger in an operation," stammered Sid, blushing like a girl.