"Don't," begged Phil. "We don't have to clean our feet when we come in now, and if we had a new rug we'd feel obliged to." "All right, have it your own way," remarked Tom. "But you've got enough liniment on there for two thumbs. Here, give me the bottle, and rub what's on your hand in where the swelling is." Sid extended the bottle to Tom. Phil, who was holding the cork, endeavored to insert it during the transfer. The result was a fumble, the phial slipped from Sid's grasp, Tom made a grab for it, but missed, and Phil, with only one good hand, could do nothing. The bottle crashed to the floor and broke, the liniment running about in little rivulets from a sort of central lake. "Now you have done it!" exclaimed Tom. "Who?" demanded Sid. "You and Phil. Why didn't you let me do the doctoring? You two dopes aren't able to look after yourselves! Look at the rug now!" "It was as much your fault as ours," declared Sid. "Why didn't you grab the bottle?" "Why didn't you hand it to me? I like your nerve!" "That's a nice spot on a rug," said Phil in disgust. "It adds to the beauty," declared Sid. "It just matches the big grease spot on the other side, which was left as a souvenir by the former occupants of this study. They must have made a practice of dropping bread and butter on the floor about eight nights a week. But say, if you want to do something, Tom, rub this stuff into my thumb, will you?" "Sure; wait until I pick up this broken glass. I don't want to cut my feet on it, in case I should take to walking in my sleep." He was soon vigorously massaging Sid's injured hand, using a piece of flannel as directed by Phil, and was given a vote of thanks for the professional manner in which he did it. "I'm sorry about your liniment, Phil," said Tom. "It's all gone. The only thing I see for you to do is to cut out that piece of the rug where it has soaked in, and bind it on your shoulder." "Oh, it doesn't matter. I won't need any more to-night, and to-morrow I'll get some more from the doctor." Sid was the first to awaken the next morning. A peculiar sensation about his injured hand called his attention to it. He pulled it from under the covers and glanced at it. Then he tried to bend the fingers. They were as stiff as pieces of wood. So was the thumb. It was as if it had been encased in a plaster cast. "I say, you fellows!" called Sid in some alarm. "What's the matter?" inquired Tom. "Don't you know it's Sunday, and we can sleep as long as we like?" "Look at my hand! Look at it!" exclaimed Sid tragically. "I can't use it!" Something in his tones made Tom get up. He strode over to the bed. "Say, that is mighty queer," he remarked, as he tried to bend Sid's fingers, and could not. "You must have given yourself a fearful knock." "Or else that liniment wasn't the right thing for it," added Phil, sitting up. "Better call the doc." CHAPTER XII THE FIRST GAME