like sin now. Guess I'll have to cut lectures to-day and stay in bed."
"What excuse will you give?"
"Oh, I'll say—no, I won't, either," declared Sid with a sudden change of decision. "I can't say it was playing baseball that laid me up or Moses will ask me to cut out the ball. I've got to suffer. I know what I'll do. I'll limp in chapel and on my way to lectures. I'm not prepared in trig, anyhow, and maybe they'll let me off easy. I'm sure to slump in Latin, but maybe Pitchfork will have mercy on a gladiator who was willing to die for Cæsar."
Tom felt like laughing, but he restrained himself as he saw that Sid was really suffering. The first baseman crawled out of bed with many a groan and made wry faces. He limped across the room.
"How's that?" he asked Tom. "Do I do it naturally?"
"Sure. It would deceive anybody."
"I don't want to deceive 'em. It's gospel truth. I'm as lame as a sore horse. But I'll go down."
"Let me rub it," suggested Tom, and he forgot part of his troubles in giving vigorous massage to Sid's strained side.
"It feels better. Thanks, old man," declared the hurt one as he began to dress.
"But you're limping worse than ever."
