the bathroom to get some arnica for a slight bruise that had resulted from the chair's collapse, Sid murmured:
"I guess Boswell has gotten on his nerves."
"How Boswell?" asked Frank.
"Ruth," Sid further enlightened him.
"Don't you believe it," broke in Phil. "Sis wouldn't have anything to do with Bossy, while Tom was around."
"Talking about me?" suspiciously demanded the tall pitcher, entering the room at that moment.
"Oh, nothing serious," replied Phil, coolly. "We were just wondering what gave you the grouch."
"Grouch! Wouldn't anyone have a grouch if he'd practiced in the shell all Summer, and rowed his heart out, only to be beaten by Boxer—and not in a regular race, either? Wouldn't he?"
"You're no worse off than the rest of us," declared Frank, sharply. "We feel it just as badly as you do, Tom."
"You don't act so. You've been sitting here as mum as oysters!" came the bitter retort. It was the nearest in a long time Tom had come to a breach with his chums.
"What was the good of talking?" asked Sid. "Talking and shooting off a lot of hot air isn't going to make the varsity eight the head of the river; is it?"
