"Gave my thumb a fierce wrench! It hurts like blazes! Why didn't you tell me I was going to fall, and I'd have stayed in to-night?" he asked half humorously. "I'm not a prophet," replied Tom. "But come on to the room, and we'll put some arnica on it. I've got some." Holding his injured thumb tightly in his other hand, Sid finished climbing the stairs, declaiming, meanwhile, against his bad luck. "Oh, you're a regular old woman!" exclaimed Tom. "Pretty soon it'll be so bad that if you see a black cat cross your path you won't go to lectures." "I wish I had a black cat to use when I'm due in Latin class," spoke Sid. "Positively I get more and more rotten at that blamed stuff every day! I need a black cat, or something. Wow! How my thumb hurts!" "Get out!" cried Tom. "Many a time on first base I've seen you stop a hot ball, and never say a word." "That's different," declared his chum. "Hurry up and get out your arnica." "Say, you fellows make noise enough," grumbled Phil at the entrance of his roommates. "What's the matter?" "Oh, Sid tried to go upstairs on his hands, and he didn't make out very well," replied Tom. "I've got two patients on my list now. How are you, Phil?" "Oh, so-so. Gerhart was here a while ago." "He was? What did he want?" "Left a note for you. It's on the table." "Humph! Invitation to a little spread he's going to give. Didn't you fellows get any?" spoke Tom as he read it. "No; and I don't want one," from Phil. "And I'm not going," declared Tom. "Gerhart is too much of a cad for me." "Insufferably so!" added Phil. "The little puppy gave himself such airs in here that I wanted to kick him out. But I wasn't going to say anything, for I thought you might be getting chummy with him, Tom, seeing that he left the note for you." "No, indeed. I don't know what his object is, nor why he should invite me. He and Langridge are a pair, and they can stick together," and Tom wadded up the invitation and threw it into the waste basket. "Say, if you're going to get the arnica, I wish you'd get a move on," implored Sid, who was stretched out on the sofa. "This hurts me worse than not knowing my Virgil when I'm called on in Pitchfork's class." "Then it can't hurt very much," said Phil. "Let's see it." Sid held out a hand, the thumb of which was beginning to swell. "Why don't you use some of my liniment instead of arnica for it?" proposed Phil. "It's just the stuff for a sprain. Here, pour some on your hand," and Phil, whose left arm was in a sling, handed Sid the bottle from the table. Sid poured a generous quantity on his thumb. "Look out for the rug!" exclaimed Tom. "Do you want to spoil it?" for the liniment was dripping from Sid's hand. "Spoil it? Spoil this tattered and torn specimen of a fake oriental?" queried Sid with a laugh. "Say, if we spread molasses on it the thing couldn't look much worse than it does. I've a good notion to strike for a new one."