Sid was in bed when Tom and Phil returned, and he did not say anything, or exhibit any signs of being awake, so they did not disturb him, refraining from even talking in whispers of the jolly time they had had. There was a strong smell of tobacco about Sid's clothes, but his chums said nothing of this. The next day Sid was moody and disconsolate. He wrote several letters, tearing them up, one after the other, but finally he seemed to hit on one that pleased him, and went out to mail it. Amid the torn scraps about his desk Phil and Tom could not help seeing several which began variously "My dear Miss Harrison," "Dear Miss Harrison," "Dear friend," and "Esteemed friend." "Trying to square himself," remarked Tom. "He's got it bad--poor old Sid," added Phil. "It will all come out right in the end, I hope." But it didn't seem to for Sid, since in the course of the next week, when he had written again to Miss Harrison asking her to go with him to a dance, he received in return a polite little note, pleading a previous engagement. "Well," remarked Tom one afternoon, when he and his crowd of players had thronged out on the diamond, "we're getting into some kind of shape. Get back there, Dutch, while I try a few curves, and then we'll have a practice game." "And pay particular attention to your batting, fellows," cautioned Coach Leighton. "It isn't improving the way it ought, and I hear that Boxer has some good stick-wielders this season." "Yes, and they've got some one else on their nine, too," added Bricktop Molloy. "Have ye heard the news, byes?" for sometimes the red-haired shortstop betrayed his genial Irish nature by his brogue. "No, what is it?" asked Phil. "Fred Langridge is playing with them." "What? Langridge, the bully who used to be here?" cried one student. "That same," retorted Bricktop. "Have they hired him?" inquired Holly Cross. "No, he's taking some sort of a course at Boxer Hall, I believe." "A course in concentrated meanness, I guess," suggested Tom, as he thought of the dastardly trick Langridge had tried to play on Phil during the previous term. "Well, no matter about that," came from the coach. "You boys want to improve your batting--that's all. Your field work is fair, and I haven't anything but praise for our battery." "Thanks!" chorused Tom and Dutch Housenlager, making mock bows. "But get busy, fellows," went on the coach. "Oh, by the way, captain, what about a manager?" "Election to-night," answered Tom quickly. "The notice has been posted. Come on, we'll have a scrub game. Five innings will be enough. There ought to be----" "My uncle says----" began a voice from a small knot of non-playing spectators. "Fenton's wound up!" cried Dutch, making an attempt to penetrate the crowd and get at the offending nephew of the former coach. "Can him!" shouted Joe Jackson. "Put your uncle on ice!" added Pete Backus. "Leave him out after dark, and Proc. Zane will catch him," came from Snail Looper.