Part 6 (1/2)

”I mean it. What's the use of keeping in the grind day after day, like a horse on a tread mill? What does a fellow get out of it? Nothing but hard work and a pain in the head! Some times my head hurts to beat the band! I can't stand it, and I won't! They are all against me, every one of 'em!” And Tom commenced to wring his hands, while two tears stood in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

CHAPTER V

TOM'S QUEER ACTIONS

Sam did not know what to say or what to do. He realized more fully than ever that his brother was not himself. He was growing wilder and more irrational every moment.

”Tom,” he asked suddenly, ”have you got those pills with you that the doctor gave you to take?”

”Sure,” was the ready answer.

”Have you taken any lately?”

”No. What's the use? They don't seem to help me.”

”Let me see them, please.”

”There they are.” Tom brought the box from his pocket. ”They might as well be bread pills, or Gumley's red ones,” and he grinned for a moment at the recollection of the trick played on William Philander Tubbs.

Sam took the box and looked at the directions carefully. ”It says to take one three times a day when needed,” he said. ”You had better take one now, Tom. Come on.”

”It won't do any good, Sam.”

”Well, take one for me, that's a good fellow. Wait, I've got my pocket cup and I'll get some water.” And he did so.

”Oh, dear, you're bound to feed me pills,” sighed Tom, and made a wry face as he swallowed the one Sam handed him. Sam kept the box, making up his mind that he would play nurse after this.

”I guess we had better walk some more,” said Tom, suddenly. ”I hate sitting still. If we had the old _Dartaway_ I'd take a sail from here to San Francisco, or some other far-off place.”

”Wait a little, I'm tired,” answered Sam, soothingly. ”Just see those little fishes!” he said, pointing to the water under the bridge.

He made Tom get down and watch the fishes and bathed his brother's forehead. At first Tom was rather restless, but soon the pill seemed to take effect and he grew quiet.

”I'm getting awfully tired,” he announced, presently. ”I guess we had better be getting back, Sam.”

”Just as you say, Tom,” was the quiet reply.

It was growing dark when they reached the college grounds and most of the students had gone in to supper. Tom said he did not feel much like eating, but his brother told him he had better have a little food, and they went in together. They saw Songbird and the others at another table. The would-be poet and Spud nodded to them, but Stanley paid no attention.

Sam and Tom still occupied their old room, Number 25, while Songbird was still in Number 26. Since d.i.c.k was not to return to Brill his place in the latter room had been taken by Max Spangler, a jolly fellow of German-American parentage.

”Vot is der madder mit Dom Rofer?” asked Max of the would-be poet, as both came up to the room after supper.

”Oh, he isn't feeling very well, Max,” was the reply. ”What makes you ask?”

”Oh, I see him put his hands by his head on so many dimes,” said Max.

”He got knocked owit, didn't he?”

”Yes, a rascal hit him over the head with a wooden footstool and nearly cracked his skull.”