"I see. You thought if you came and waked me up that you could sleep; is that it?"
"Oh, not at all, Mr. Simond." He could be funny when he wanted to, thought shivering Tom. "I—er—I was just going back to bed," he explained lamely, for that was true enough.
"Very well, then you'd better go now," concluded Mr. Simond. "And don't knock on any more doors, or I shall have to look further into the matter. Good-night!"
"Good-night!" gasped Tom, surprised to be let off thus easily. "It was all a mistake, I assure you," he added, as he glided away.
"Well, don't repeat the mistake," was the grim injunction of the instructor, as he closed his door, and Tom vowed that he would not—at least that night.
"I'm a chump!" he told himself as he hurried back to his room. "I might better have let Sid grind out his mushy poetry in peace, and gotten my sleep. Now I may be in for a lecture tomorrow."
As he entered the room he saw, grouped in the middle of the apartment, his three chums. The sight of Sid, with Phil and Frank, caused Tom to halt.
"Where in thunder have you been?" demanded Phil. "We were just going to get up a searching party for you."
