"I say, Phil," remarked the pitcher, as he almost strangled himself getting a tight fifteen collar to fit on the same size shirt, "doesn't it strike you as queer about Sid--I mean his chasing off this way so suddenly?" "It sure does. This is the second time, and each time he scoots off when he's had a note from some one." "Remember when he came back last night, smelling so strong of tobacco?" "Sure; yet he doesn't smoke." "No, and that's the funny part of it. Then there's the fact of him having no money to-day, though he had a roll yesterday." There was silence in the small apartment, while the clock ticked on. Tom, somewhat exhausted by his struggle with his collar, sank down on the ancient sofa, a cloud of dust, like incense, arising around him. "Cæsar's legions! My clothes will be a sight!" he cried, jumping up, and searching frantically for a whisk broom. "Easy!" cried Phil, "I just had my tie in the right shape, and you've knocked it all squee-gee!" for Tom in his excitement had collided with his chum. They managed to get dressed after a while--rather a long while. "Come on," said Tom, as he took a final look at himself in the glass, for though he was not too much devoted to dress or his own good looks, much adornment of their persons must be excused on the part of the talented pitcher and his chum, on the score of the pretty girls with whom they were to spend the evening. "I'm ready," announced Phil. "Shall we leave a light for Sid?" "I don't know. No telling when he'll be in. Do you know, Phil, it seems rotten mean to mention it, and I only do it to see if you have the same idea I have, but I shouldn't be surprised if old Sid was gambling." "Gambling!" "Yes. Look how he's sneaked off these last two nights, not saying where he's going, and acting so funny about it. Then coming in late, all perfumed with tobacco, and getting caught, and not having any money and--and--Oh, well, hang it all! I know it won't go any further, or I shouldn't mention it; but doesn't it look queer?" Phil did not reply for a moment. He glanced at Tom, as if to fathom his earnestness, and as the two stood there, looking around their common home, marked by the absence of Sid, the fussy little alarm clock seemed to be repeating over and over again the ugly word--"gambler--gambler--gambler." "Well?" asked Tom softly. "I hate to say it, but I'm afraid you're right," replied Phil. "Sid, of all chaps, though. It's fierce!" and then the two went out. Tom and Phil called at the residence of Miss Harrison's relatives for Madge and Ruth. Tom tried, tactfully enough, to get Miss Harrison to come to the theatricals with himself and Ruth, but the blue-eyed girl pleaded a headache (always a lady's privilege), and said she would stay at home. Sid's name was not mentioned. Then the four young people went off, leaving a rather disconsolate damsel behind.