"Thimble!" cried Sid scornfully. "Do you take me for an old maid? Where did you ever learn to use a thimble?" and he walked over to where Tom was making an exceedingly neat job of mending his glove. "Oh, I picked it up," responded the pitcher of the Randall 'varsity nine. "Comes in handy when your foot goes through your socks." "Yes, and that's what they do pretty frequently these days," added Phil. "If you haven't anything to do, Tom, I wish you'd get busy on some of my footwear. I just got a batch back from the laundry, and I'm blessed if out of the ten pairs of socks I can get one whole pair." "I'll look 'em over," promised the pitcher. "There, that's as good as new; in fact better, for it fits my hand," and he held up and gazed critically at the mended glove. "Where's yours, Sid?" he went on. "I'll mend it for you." Silence was the atmosphere of the apartment for a few minutes--that is comparative silence, though the pushing of Tom's needle through the leather, squeaking as he forced it, mingled with the ticking of the clock. "I guess we can count on a good nine this year," observed Tom judicially, apropos of the glove repairing. "It's up to you, cap," remarked Sid, for Tom had been elected to that coveted honor. "You mean it's up to you fellows," retorted the pitcher-captain. "I want some good batters, that's what I want. It's all right enough to have a team that can hold down Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute, but you can't win games by shutting out the other fellows. Runs are what count, and to get runs you've got to bat to win." "Listen to the oracle!" mocked Phil, but with no malice in his voice. "You want to do better than three hundred with the stick, Sid." "Physician, heal thyself!" quoted Tom, smiling. "I think we will have a good----" He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor. Instinctively the three lads started, then, as a glance at the clock showed that they were not burning lights beyond the prescribed hour, there was a breath of relief. "Who's coming?" asked Tom. "Woodhouse, Bricktop or some of the royal family," was Phil's opinion. "No," remarked Sid quietly, and there was that in his voice which made his chums look curiously at him, for it seemed as if he expected some one. A moment later there came a rap on the door, and then, with a seeming knowledge of the nerve-racking effect this always has on college students, a voice added: "I'm Wallops, the messenger. I have a note for Mr. Henderson." "For me?" and there was a startled query in Sid's voice, as he went to the door. Outside the portal stood a diminutive figure--Wallops--the college messenger, so christened in ages gone by--perhaps because of the chastisements inflicted on him. At any rate Wallops he was, and Wallops he remained. "A message for me?" repeated Sid. "Where from?" "Dunno. Feller brought it, and said it was for you," and, handing the youth an envelope, the messenger departed.