of the many papers he had brought back with him; or, to be more exact, to certain items in those papers.
Tom, coming downstairs after that enervating experience in Mr. Wyatt's study, saw the crowd at the end of the corridor, and joined it as fast as he could. An acquaintance named Bumstead, a slight, sandy haired youth, who wore big, round spectacles, and whom Tom disliked cordially, presented himself as the nearest source of information. Bumstead turned incredulous, but joyous eyes on the inquirer.
"Say, haven't you heard?" he exclaimed almost shrilly. "Gee, where have you been?"
"Picking daisies," replied Tom impatiently. "Spill it!"
"Otis is sick, and can't come back the rest of the season! He's got the 'flu'! They just got word from him."
"Roll your hoop!" said Tom incredulously. "Who says so?"
"Gee, it's true! Ask any one. Faculty's called a meeting of the Athletic Committee, too. This evening. In 'Pinky's' room. Ask any one."
"If 'G. G.'s' so blamed sick how could he write and tell about it?" demanded Tom witheringly. "Of course, I'm not saying he hasn't got the 'flu'; lots of folks have it; but it's crazy to say he isn't coming back."
"Maybe he didn't write himself," said Bumstead. "Maybe it was the doctor or some one. Anyway—"
