Tom and Phil conversed in low tones about the team and the showing made that day in the first formal game of the season, but as for Sid, he kept to himself in one corner of the electric car, and there was a moody look on his face. "He's taking it hard," observed Phil in a low voice. Tom shook his head. "I can't understand it," he said. Sid stalked into the room ahead of his chums and threw himself down on the old sofa, which creaked and groaned with his weight. "Easy, old man," called Phil good naturedly. "We've had that in the family for three terms, now, and it's a regular heirloom. Don't smash it for us. Remember what a time we had last term, patching it up, and moving it here from our old room?" "Yes, and how Langridge was upset trying to get down stairs past us," added Tom. "Have a little regard for the sofa, Sid." "Oh, hang the sofa!" burst out the lad, and then Tom and Phil knew it was useless to talk to him. Phil crossed the room softly and sat cautiously down in the old armchair. Tom looked at the alarm clock, and exclaimed: "Jove! If it hasn't stopped! Must be something wrong," and he hurriedly wound it, and then started it by the gentle process of pounding it on the edge of the table. Soon the fussy clicking was again heard. "It's all right," went on the pitcher, in relieved tones. "Gave me heart disease at first. The clock is as much of a relic as the chair and sofa. But I've got to mend my glove again. It's ripped in the same place. Rotten athletic goods they're selling nowadays." There came a knock on the door, and Wallops, the messenger, who stood revealed as the portal was opened, announced: "Mr. Zane would like to see you, Mr. Henderson." [Illustration: "MR. ZANE WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU, MR. HENDERSON."] "Me?" inquired Sid. "Yep," was the sententious answer. Saying nothing further, the second baseman got up, and, as the messenger went down the hall, he followed slowly. "He's in for it, I'm afraid," remarked Tom dubiously. "Looks so," agreed Phil. "It's about that item in the paper, of course. Too bad it leaked out." But what took place at the interview with the proctor, Sid's chums did not learn until long afterward. All that became known was that Dr. Churchill was summoned, and that Sid was in the proctor's study a long time. He returned to his room a trifle pale, and with unnaturally bright eyes. Throwing himself on the creaking sofa he stared at the ceiling moodily, while Phil and Tom maintained a discrete silence. "Why don't some of you fellows say something?" burst out Sid finally. "Think this is a funeral?" "We didn't think you wanted to have a talk-fest," observed Tom. "What in blazes am I to do?" asked Sid desperately. "What about?" inquired Phil. "You know--Miss Harrison. I don't want to have her think I'm a gambler. I'm not--I----" "Then why don't you tell her why you were in Dartwell the night of the raid?" suggested the captain. "I--I can't," burst out Sid. "It's impossible!"