“And let the grandstand rebuild itself?” asked Phil, incredulously.
“No!” cried Tom, eagerly. “We fellows can rebuild it ourselves! I know how to handle tools, and I guess lots of the other fellows do, also. We can do it if we try. We haven’t got the money to hire carpenters, so we’ll be carpenters ourselves! We’ll build that grandstand!”
“Hurrah for Carpenter Tom!” cried Dutch Housenlager, doing a Highland fling down the long dormitory corridor.
“I don’t know the difference between a beam and a joist, and a two-by-four is as illuminating to me as a Greek root would be to a baby,” said Kindlings, “but I’m with you, fellows!”
“So am I!” cried Frank Simpson. “I worked in a lumber camp once, and——”
“Say, is there anything you didn’t do?” askedHolly, as he thought of the hazing. “You’re all right, Simpson. You can carry the two-by-fours for Kindlings.”
“Make him carry the beams and joists,” suggested Phil. “He’ll do for that, all right.”
Eagerly talking of the new idea, the boys gathered in the room of our heroes, and such a lively meeting was in progress that Proctor Zane was forced to call an adjournment, though he was very decent about it, and, hearing of the plan announced that he would amend some of the college rules, to enable the amateur carpenters to work at night, by means of powerful arc lights.
“Hurrah!” cried the lads, and Proctor Zane was cheered for one of the few times in his life. He seemed to like it, too.
A meeting of the athletic committee was called for early the next day, and the plan of having the lads do the carpenter work was discussed in all its details. There was some money available for tools, and it developed that, as Tom had said, many of the students were handy with them, some even having done carpenter work in their vacations to earn tuition money.
One of the janitors had once been a builder, and he offered to show the boys how to do the work properly, so that it would be safe.
“It will be almost as good as football practicefor us,” declared Tom, when he and his chums went to town to buy the tools and nails.
“It will keep us on the jump, if we get it done in time for the Canton game,” declared Phil.
“Has anyone seen my hammer?”
“Where the mischief did I put those nails?”
“Hey, Tom, give us a hand setting this joist, will you?”
“I say, Phil, should this two-by-four go in with the big side out, or the narrow?”
“Simpson, look out, or you’ll saw my finger. You’re too close to me.”
“Wow! Ouch!” and Holly Cross dropped the hatchet he was using in place of a hammer, and held his thumb in his mouth. “Jerusalem crickets!” he cried. “I’ll never be able to practice football if I keep on this way!”
There was a riot of sounds: hammering, planing, and chiseling, and sawing; and, mingled with them, the clatter of the lads’ voices, in entreaties, commands, appeals for help, asking for advice, or, as Holly’s was, raised in agony over some misdirected blow.
Work on rebuilding the grandstand was in fullswing. On examination of the wrecked structure after the storm, it was found that nearly all the material in it could be used over again. All the new lumber that would be needed would be some heavy joists, to take the place of those broken in the collapse.
They were quite expensive to buy, but a lumber dealer who heard of the boys’ plight agreed to let them have the timber, and to wait as long as they liked for his pay. He even furnished a couple of men to raise the heavy pieces into place, and the boys voted him a first-class “sport,” and sent him a season complimentary ticket to all the games.
It was not as easy as it sounds, nor as simple as the boys had expected, to rebuild the structure, but they went at it with hearty good will, and a determination, in the path of which nothing could stand. The several janitors gave them all the aid they could, but the boys did most of the work, after they were told just how to do it.
Frank Simpson was of great help, for he was probably the strongest and biggest lad in college, and the way he could shoulder a beam, and walk off with it to where it was needed in the work was something to look at and admire.
“But you fellows needn’t stop work to watch Frank,” said Tom Parsons, who, because of his knowledge of carpentry, and because he had proposedthe scheme, was, by common consent, made a sort of foreman. “Get busy, and do some of the lifting yourselves,” he advised.
“I say, Tom,” demanded Sid, “what makes these boards split every time I try to nail them on these four-by-fours? I must be a hoodoo, for I’ve split half a dozen.”
“Those aren’t four-by-fours,” declared Tom. “They’re two-by-fours, or scantling, and there are a lot of reasons why you split the boards.”
“Give me one, and I’ll be satisfied.”
“Well, you’re using cut nails, and you ought to use wire ones there, as the boards are old and dry. Then you have to nail so close to the edge that they split easier than they would if you could put the nails nearer the middle. But use wire nails.”
“You mean those round ones?”
“Yes. The cut nails are those black, square-headed ones, and when you do use them, drive ’em with the widest part of the end at right angles to the grain of the wood.”
“What’s that, a lesson in geometry, young gentlemen?” asked a voice, and the students turned quickly, to observe President Churchill observing them with an amused smile.
“No, sir,” answered Sid. “Tom was telling me how to drive nails.”
“Ah, yes, a very useful accomplishment, I believe,” remarked the doctor. “Though I nevercould do it without hitting my thumb. A very useful accomplishment, very.”
He looked at the grandstand, which was nearing completion, and, as he passed on, with a book of Sanskrit under his arm, he remarked:
“You are doing very well, young gentlemen—very well. Randall has reason to be proud of her resourceful students.”
“Prexy looks worried,” remarked Sid, as the good doctor passed on out of hearing.
“Yes, I shouldn’t wonder but what that legal business is bothering him,” admitted Tom. “It’s a blamed shame it had to happen, but it’s just like the Langridge breed to want to stir up trouble. Now, Sid, put plenty of nails in when you fasten two scantling together, and use the big cut ones. We don’t want this stand to come down with a lot of pretty girls on it.”
“I should say not!” and Sid plied his hammer with renewed energy, as though to prevent any such catastrophe.
Tom went on with what he was doing, on another part of the stand, until he was called by Frank Simpson, who wanted his opinion on a certain point.
“I think if we run these cross-pieces the other way,” suggested the big Californian, “it will brace the stand better.”
“So do I,” agreed Tom, after an examination.“Go ahead, do it that way, Frank. Want any help getting that beam up?”
“No, I can do it alone.” Which the strong lad did, to Tom’s admiration.
And thus the building work went on. True, not every joint was as even as regular carpenters would have made them, and a number of boards were sawed very crookedly, but this did not interfere with the strength of the stand, and little was cared for looks in the emergency.
President Churchill was not taking any chances, however, and he privately sent for an architect friend of his, who examined the rebuilt structure, and assured the worried doctor that it was perfectly safe.
Record time was made with the task, for three hundred willing lads can accomplish wonders, even if they lack the training of a trade. As the date for the Canton game approached, it was seen that the stand would be very nearly finished on time. It was necessary to stop work sometimes to get in football practice, but the boys were developing unused muscles, and hardening others by their labors, so that they were in fine physical trim.
“It’s the best thing that could have happened,” said Holly Cross to Captain Woodhouse, at the close of work one afternoon. “We’ll wipe the ground up with Canton.”
“Well, we ought to,” declared Dan.
“Don’t be so sure,” retorted Mr. Lighton; “they have a pretty good team.”
“Ours is improving,” asserted Kindlings, proudly, and, in a measure, this was so, though there were still some weak places in the line.
It was within two days of the Canton game, and the boys were working eagerly to get the stand in shape. They had put in several nights on it, laboring in shifts, by the light of some flaming arc lamps rigged up by the college electrician.
Tom, in virtue of his position as foreman, was going about and doing as much as he could, when, as he passed near Phil, who was nailing down some of the seats, the quarter-back called to his chum:
“I say, Tom, when you have a chance just take a stroll over where that Lenton chap is working.”
“You mean Henry Lenton—the freshman?”
“Yes, the chap who flocks by himself so much, and always seems to be tinkering with something in his room. See what he’s doing?”
“Why; is he doing it wrong?”
“No, but you remember the queer key we found in our door that night?”
“Sure.”
“Well, just think of that when you see what Lenton is doing.”
Wondering what motive Phil could have, Tomdid stroll over to where, down in the front part of the stand, the odd student was screwing some hinges on the doors of a row of boxes, the seats in which sold for higher prices than the ordinary ones. Lenton was a strange lad. He was bright in his studies, and his taste ran to matters scientific. He was eager in the physics and chemistry classes, and had made a number of ingenious machines and pieces of apparatus to illustrate the forces of nature.
As Tom approached he heard the shrill scraping of a file, and at once what Phil had said about the key came into his mind.
“I wonder what Lenton is filing?” thought the end. Not wishing to seem to sneak up on him, yet desiring to solve the mystery, if there was one, Tom called:
“What’s the matter? Don’t those hinges fit, Lenton?”
“Some of them do, and others don’t,” was the reply. “Or, rather, the hinges are all right, but the hasps that hold the doors shut aren’t true. I have to file some.”
“Oh,” said Tom, and then he noticed that the lad had rigged up a small, portable iron vise on the rail near which he was working. The vise held a piece of metal, and this the lad was industriously filing.
As Tom noticed the manner in which Lentonhandled the tools, working with files of several different sizes, the same suspicions that Phil had entertained came into his own mind. As for the files, Tom knew that none had been bought for use on the stand.
“Where did you get ’em?” he asked, picking up one.
“Oh, they’re mine,” answered Lenton. “I’ve got quite a few tools in my room,” and then he drew the file back and forth over the metal, making such a noise that conversation was difficult. Tom watched him a few minutes, and then turned away.
“Phil was right,” the end murmured. “There is something expert in the way he uses a file, and perhaps he did make the false key. We’ll have to do some investigating.”
They worked on the grandstand even during the morning of the day when the Canton Military game was to be played, and then the tired but satisfied students laid aside their hammers and saws, picked up the scattered nails, and sighed with relief.
“It was a big job—bigger than I thought it was when I proposed it,” spoke Tom, “and I’m glad it’s over.”
“So am I,” added Holly. “We’ll take in some money, now. I hear there’s a big crowd coming.”
“We may have to take some of our funds for the relief of the college, if things keep on,” remarked Kindlings. “There was another meeting of the faculty this morning, about that law and claim business.”
“Is that so?” asked Phil. “Cæsar’s ghost! but things aren’t doing a thing but happening to Randall!”
“Well, it’s always darkest just before daylight,” observed Sid, and then the coach camealong, and ordered them all out to light practice, in preparation for the game soon to be played.
Tom and his two chums were on their way from the gymnasium, refreshed by a shower bath, and were going to their room, to rest a bit before appearing on the gridiron with their team mates.
“Did you find out anything more about Lenton, Tom?” asked Phil, for it had been agreed that Tom was to do a little detective work concerning the queer lad and his files.
“No, nothing of any account,” he answered. “I talked with some of the fellows who room next to him, and all they could tell me was that he is always tinkering on something or other. He’s making some kind of an electrical machine, Perkins said, and he keeps buzzing away at it half the night. He’s a queer Dick, all right, but I don’t know that he had anything to do with the taking of our clock and chair.”
“I’ve got my suspicions,” declared Phil. “I’m mighty sure he made that false key to our room, anyhow, and I’m going to put it up to him some time soon.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” advised Sid. “It might make trouble.”
“Well, didn’t he—or someone—make trouble for us?” asserted the quarter-back. “But I’ll be pretty sure of my ground before I make any cracks. Now for a rest, and then——”
“A good fight!” finished Tom, stretching out his arms. “I hope we wallop ’em good!”
As both Captain Woodhouse and Mr. Lighton were sure of the ability of Randall to beat the military eleven, a number of the substitute players were allowed to go on the ’varsity team, much to their delight, for they were hungry for a scrimmage.
There was a record-breaking crowd, and the rebuilt grandstand was taxed to its capacity. Though the Canton game was one of the minor contests, it always drew well, and was quite a society function, for the school was an exclusive one. The cadets, in their natty uniforms, came almost in a body, and of course the girls were there in “beautiful bunches,” as Holly Cross said. Not only damsels from the military school town, but from Fairview and from Haddonfield.
“I tell you what it is,” said Holly, as he was practicing with his mates; “‘uniforms git gals,’ as the schoolboy once wrote in his composition. ‘If you can’t be a soldier, be a policeman, for uniforms git girls.’”
“It’s got ’em here to-day, all right,” observed Sid. “I hope that——”
“That the heads of our particular girls aren’t turned by any of the cadets,” finished Phil, with a laugh.
The game was on, and it was seen that, whileRandall had every chance of beating, she would have no easy contest for the victory. The cadets played with a beautiful precision, and their team work was something that made Coach Lighton sigh in vain.
“Why can’t I get our fellows to play like that?” he asked in despair of Captain Woodhouse, during a lull in the game, when one of the cadets had the wind knocked out of him.
“It’s because of the changes so late in the season,” declared Kindlings. “We miss Kerr and Bricktop.”
“Well, go on in and do ’em up,” advised the coach, as the referee’s whistle blew. “Don’t let ’em score on you.”
“Not if I know it,” answered the captain.
The game was resumed fiercely. Knowing they had little chance to win the game, the cadets devoted all their energies to trying to score. They wanted at least one touchdown, or a field goal, and Randall was determined they should have neither.
In the first ten minutes of play, Randall had shoved the ball over the line, and the goal was kicked. Then, after some rushing tactics, which demonstrated that the cadets’ line was stronger than at first appeared, Phil gave the signals for some kicking plays. But it was soon demonstrated that Canton was almost as good at this aswas her rival, and while it was desired to get some practicing in punting and drop work, it was deemed too dangerous.
“Straight football,” ordered the captain to the quarter-back, and the game went on in that style.
There were several forward passes, that netted good gains, and the onside kick was tried, until a fumble nearly resulted in Canton scoring, and then it was not used again.
Up the field the Randallites rushed the ball, not so fast nor so easily but what they felt the strain, and soon there was another touchdown against the cadets. There was almost another in the first half, but the whistle cut the play short, and the nearest the military lads had been to scoring was when they tried for a field goal, and failed, because Sid broke through and blocked the kick.
With indomitable energy, the cadets went at their opponents again in the second half. Several fresh players were put in, and Captain Woodhouse allowed other substitutes to try their abilities.
This nearly proved the scratching down of a score against Randall, as the new lads did not hold well in line, and they were being shoved back for a loss, when Phil called for some kicking tactics. This took the ball out of danger, and soon our friends had again crossed the military goal line.
It was characteristic of the pluck of the Canton lads that they never gave up. At it again they went, hammer and tongs, giving their heavier rivals no rest. It was a much more “scrappy” game from the point of playing, than had been expected, and on occasions excitement ran high. Several times Randall was penalized for holding in the line, or for off-side play, but this was due to the eagerness of the substitutes, who had not the seasoned judgment of the ’varsity men.
The game was drawing to a close, amid a riot of songs and cheers. Randall had rolled up a big enough score to satisfy even the exacting coach, and there were but a few more minutes left to play. Canton had the ball, it being given to her on a penalty, and they were just over the centre line, in the Randall territory. There came a signal, and the Canton left half-back was sent charging into the line between Sam Looper and Bert Bascome.
Whose fault it was no one stopped to figure out, but there was a big hole opened, Sam was sent sprawling to one side, with Bascome on top of him, and the man with the ball was through the line, running like a deer for the Randall goal line.
Sid Henderson tried for a tackle, and missed, and then George Carter, who was playing full, got ready to throw the man with the ball. But thelatter proved to be a player of exceptional ability, and speeding straight at the full-back, he suddenly dodged, so that Carter, who made a dive for him, also missed, and went sprawling.
There was now not a player between the Canton man and the goal line. Like mad, his friends leaped to their feet, and sent cheer after cheer ringing into the air.
“Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!” was the frenzied yell.
“After him!” shouted Captain Woodhouse. “Don’t let him touch it down, fellows!”
He was running desperately, but speed was not his strong point. Tom Parsons, however, was on the alert. There was not many who could beat him at the scudding game, and he tore off over the white marks after the cadet, with a fierce desire to pull him down in his tracks. It was a hard race, but Tom won, and grappled his man in a fierce tackle from behind, not two yards from the goal line. Down they went heavily, lying there for a few seconds, the breath knocked from them both.
“Do—down!” gasped the cadet, and there were tears in his eyes, for it meant the end of the hope of his school.
“Too bad, old man,” spoke Tom kindly, “but we really couldn’t allow it, you know. It was a good try, though.”
The other did not answer. He still had the ball, and there was another line-up, but before the play could be made, the whistle blew, and Randall’s goal line was still inviolate.
“How’d he get through?” demanded Captain Woodhouse, when the cheering was over, and the players were going to the dressing rooms.
“He got through between Bascome and me,” said the unlucky Snail.
“It wasn’t my fault,” declared the tackle. “He just pushed Sam over. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Well, it wassomebody’sfault,” grumbled the captain, “and if it happens again, something else will happen.”
There was quite a jolly time after the game, in spite of the defeat of the military lads, and the left half-back, who had made the sensational run, and who had so nearly scored, was properly lionized.
“When are you going to have another little dance, girls?” asked Tom, of Ruth Clinton and her two friends.
“When you boys have another fire at Randall,” was the quick answer.
The little party of students had some refreshments together, and then, as a little shower came up, the crowd scurried for shelter, the girls going back to Fairview.
“Well, it was a pretty good game, all right,”remarked Tom, as he and his chums were walking down the corridor to their room.
“Pretty fair,” admitted Phil. “Hold on a minute, fellows; I want to see something.”
“What?” asked Tom.
“If there are any more keys in the door,” answered the quarter-back, “and also whether anyone is in there. Listen!”
They approached their portal cautiously, and waited in silence for a moment, but heard no sound. Then they entered, finding no false key in the lock.
But, no sooner were the chums in their apartment, than they were made aware of something strange. As if by common impulse, they came to a stop in the middle of the floor. Then Tom cried:
“Listen! Our old clock! The alarm clock!”
A loud ticking was heard—a tick different from that of the mahogany timepiece. Tom switched on the light.
There, on the mantle, in the place where it had always rested, was their battered old relic! They gazed at it, scarcely able to believe their eyes. Then Sid remarked:
“The clock has come back!”
“And only increases the mystery,” added Tom, slowly.
Phil Clinton walked over to the mantle, and, almost reverently, took down the fussy, ticking clock. It seemed to make more noise than usual, but perhaps this was because the room was so quiet, or perchance they had become used to the rather gentle tick-tock of the mahogany timepiece. The quarter-back turned the clock over and over.
“Yes, it’s ours, all right,” he finally announced.
“Did you have any doubt of it?” asked Tom.
“Some,” admitted Phil. “There have been so many queer things happening, that I don’t know whether or not to believe that we are really here, that we exist, and that there is such a place as Randall College.”
“There won’t be, if Langridge’s father and those other lawyers have their way,” declared Sid, solemnly.
Phil was still closely examining the clock, turning it over and over, and listening to the tick.
“Well, what’s the matter?” asked Tom. “Doyou think it’s got the measles or the pip, that you have to hark to its breathing apparatus that way?”
“There’s something wrong with it,” declared Phil, with a dubious shake of his head. “It doesn’t tick as it used to. Here, Sid, you listen to it.”
Thus appealed to, Sid put the timepiece to his ear.
“Don’t you remember,” went on Phil, “how it used to sort of have a double tick, like an automobile with carbon in the cylinders? Sometimes it would act as if it was going to stop, and you’d think it had heart failure. Then it would get on the move again. It doesn’t do that now. It ticks as regular as a chronometer.”
“You’re right,” agreed Sid. “Here, Tom, have a hearken.”
After a few minutes’ test, Tom was also forced to conclude that there was something strange about the clock. Yet it was undeniably theirs.
“And it’s exactly right, too,” went on Phil, comparing it with his new watch, a present from his mother. “It’s right to the half minute, and that’s something that never happened before since the time when the memory of man runneth not to the contrary. Whoever had it, and brought it back, took the trouble to set it right.”
Tom was now carefully looking the clock over.He gazed thoughtfully at the back, where there were a number of turn screws and keys for winding and setting it, and uttered an exclamation.
“Fellows!” he cried, “our clock has been taken apart and put together again. See, the back is scratched where some one has used a knife or screwdriver on it, and smell the oil they’ve put on it.”
He held it first to the nose of Sid, and then to Phil. After several detecting whiffs, they both gave it as their opinion that the clock had been given an oil bath.
“This gets me!” exclaimed Phil. “Why in the name of the seven sacred somnambulistic salamanders, anyone should go to the trouble of making a false key to our room, take our clock away, renovate it, and then bring it back I can’t see for the life of me.”
“Same here,” came from Sid, as he slumped down on the sofa. “But we’ve got it back, anyhow, and isn’t there a proverb to the effect that you shouldn’t look a beggar in the mouth?”
“You’re thinking of gift-horses,” declared Tom, “but what you mean is, ‘take the gifts the gods provide.’ Still, it is mighty queer, and I wish we could get some clews that would help unravel the mystery—that of our chair as well as the clock.”
Sid uncurled long enough to reach out and geta book, which he began to study, while Phil set himself at some of his college tasks. Only Tom remained inactive—yet not inactive, either, for he was doing some hard thinking, in which the clock, the missing chair, and the troubles of Randall in general, formed a part. He arose and walked about the room, pausing now and then in front of the clock to listen to the insistent ticking.
“Oh, for cat’s sake, sit down!” exploded Phil, at length. “I’ve written this same sentence over six times, and I can’t get it right yet, with you tramping around like a prisoner in a cell.”
“Yes, go to bed,” urged Sid.
Tom did not answer. Instead, he stooped over and picked up an envelope from the floor, where it had fallen partly under and was almost hidden by a low bookcase. He turned it over to read the address, and uttered a startled cry.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Sid, springing to an upright position with such suddenness, that the old sofa creaked and groaned in protest, like a ship in a storm.
“Look!” exclaimed Tom. “This letter—I found it on the floor—it’s addressed to Bert Bascome—from someone in the college, evidently, for it hasn’t been through the mail, as there’s no stamp on it.”
Sid and Phil eagerly examined the missive, turning it over and over, as if something on it mightescape them. It was a plain white envelope, and was sealed.
“That throws some light on the mystery, and bears out my suspicion,” went on Tom.
“What light?” asked Sid.
“And what suspicion?” demanded Phil.
“The suspicion that Langridge has had a hand in this mystery, and that Bert Bascome has been in our room since we last left it. That letter wasn’t here when we went out, I’m sure of that, so Bascome must have dropped it when he brought back the clock.”
“Brought back the clock!” cried Phil. “Do you mean to say he took it—and the chair?”
“I don’t know that I do, but either he or Langridge had a hand in it,” asserted Tom, positively. “Langridge probably put Bascome up to it, to annoy us. You know Bascome and that bully were quite thick with each other before Langridge was forced to leave.”
“But this letter isn’t in the handwriting of Langridge, Tom,” objected Sid. “I knowhisfist well enough.”
“That’s right,” agreed Phil. “But I can tell you who did write this.”
“Who?” demanded Tom and Sid, in a breath.
“Henry Lenton,” was the quiet reply.
“What, the fellow you suspected of making the false key?” cried Tom, in startled tones.
“That’s the chap. He wrote this letter to Bascome; I’m sure of it.”
“Then those two are in the game against us!” came from Sid. “Oh, say, this is getting more puzzling than ever! What can we do about it—Langridge—Bascome—Lenton—who’s guilty—who had our clock?”
“I’m going to find out one thing!” declared Tom, with energy.
“What’s that?” asked Phil, as his chum arose and strode toward the door.
“I’m going to give Bascome this letter, and find out what he was doing in our room.”
“You may make trouble,” warned Phil.
“I don’t care if I do! I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” and holding the envelope as if it might somehow get away from him, Tom strode from the apartment, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, while back in the room his chums listened to the ticking of the clock that formed a link in the curious mystery.
Tom Parsons knocked vigorously on the door of Bert Bascome’s room. If the character of his summons was any indication of his mind, the bearer of the letter was in no mood for compromise. As soon as he had tapped at the portal, there was audible within the apartment a hasty scramble.
“Guess they must think it’s Zane, or Prexy,” mused Tom, grimly. He waited several seconds, and then came the gentle and somewhat sleep-simulated query:
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me—Parsons,” was the ready, if ungrammatical, answer. “Are you there, Bascome?”
“Yes, of course. I thought it was one of the profs. It’s all right, fellows—you can come out,” and, as the door opened, Tom saw several of Bascome’s friends crawling from under the bed and couch. There was a smell of cigarette smoke quite noticeable in the room.
“Whew! You fellows are going some!” commented Tom. “You can smell that all the way up to our room.”
“No! Can you really?” asked Bascome, in some alarm. “We opened all the windows, and we fan the smoke out regularly every ten minutes; don’t we, fellows?”
“Sure,” replied Merkle, one of the sportiest of sporty seniors. “It’s regular bore to think we have to sneak around this way when we want to smoke. Why, in some big colleges, I understand, they allow the undergraduates to smoke in their rooms, and even the tutors have a pipe with them.”
“Pity this isn’t a big college,” remarked Bascome, as he lighted another cigarette. “I suppose I oughtn’t to do this when I’m in training,” he went on easily, “but you won’t squeal, will you, Parsons? Have a cig. yourself?”
“No, thank you. May I see you just a moment, Bascome?”
Tom had not thought to find anyone in the room save the left tackle, and he hardly knew how, under the circumstances, to put his question.
“Sure,” answered Bascome. “Anything about football? Because if it is——”
“It isn’t,” answered Tom, quickly.
“Oh, then, come on out. Excuse me just a moment, fellows,” he said to his guests, as he followedour hero out into the corridor. “I hope it isn’t spondulix, old man,” he went on. “I’d let you have some in a moment, but I’m dead broke, and——”
“I don’t need any money!” broke in Tom, half angrily. “Look here, Bascome, were you in our room to-day—after the football game?”
“In your room? Certainly not, either before the game or after it. What do you mean?”
“Well,” went on Tom, “there have been some queer things happening lately. Our old chair was taken—for a joke, I presume, and——”
“Do you mean to accuse me of having a hand in that?” demanded Bascome, indignantly. “If you do, Parsons——”
“Take it easy,” advised Tom, calmly. “I haven’t accused you of anything yet. I merely asked you if you had been in our room.”
“But why do you do that? What makes you think I was in there?”
“Because I found this there—after we came back from the game this afternoon,” went on the end. “It’s a letter addressed to you, and I thought maybe you had dropped it.”
Tom held out the missive, but, before taking it, Bascome, with a glance of anger at his companion, said cuttingly:
“Look here, Parsons, I don’t know what your game is, but I think you’re confoundedly insulting.Now, before I look at that letter, I want to say, in the strongest way I know how, that I wasnotin your room to-day, nor any other day lately. In fact, I haven’t been there since a lot of us fellows were talking over football matters with you and Phil and Sid one evening.”
“Yes, I remember that time,” spoke Tom. “Well, I believe you, of course. Here’s the letter. It’s mighty queer, though.”
Bascome gave one glance at the missive, and murmured:
“Lenton! I wonder what he’s writing about now. That fellow’s off his base, I think.”
As he read the note, a scowl came over his face, and he muttered something that Tom could not catch. However, the end did hear Bascome say:
“Insolent puppy! He’s got nerve to write to me that way! I’ll have it out with him!”
Then, with rapid motions, Bascome tore the letter to pieces, and scattered them about the corridor.
“It doesn’t throw any light on the mystery that has been bothering you fellows, about your clock and chair,” went on the tackle. “I had some dealings with Lenton, and this was about that.”
“I didn’t ask to know what was in the letter,” said Tom, quickly. “The only funny part of it was that it was in our room. I thought perhaps——” he hesitated.
“Oh, don’t make any bones about it,” urged his fellow player. “You might as well say it as think it. You imagined I had been in there, playing some sort of a joke on you.”
“Yes, I did,” admitted Tom. “Our clock was returned mysteriously to-night, and the one left in its place was taken away. The other night we found a false key in our door, and now——”
“Now you find a letter addressed to me!” interrupted Bascome. “I don’t blame you for thinking it a bit queer, old man, but I’m not in the game. I’ve got other fish to fry. The way I suppose my letter got in you fellows’ room, is that Wallops, or some of the messengers to whom Lenton gave it to be delivered to me, must have dropped it there.”
“But Wallops nor none of the messengers would have a right to go into our room while we were out,” declared Tom.
“Oh, you can’t tell what those fellows would do,” asserted Bascome, easily. “I’ll wager that’s how it happened. Ask Wallops. I’m out of it, anyhow. I wasn’t in your shack, and you can’t make that too strong when you report back to Phil and Sid.”
“I will,” promised Tom, somewhat nonplused at the outcome of the affair. He had been sure that something would come of the connection betweenBascome and the letter. “I’m sorry I took you away from your friends,” he went on.
“Oh, that’s all right. I’d rather have youspeakopenly like this, than bethinkinga lot of queer things. No, I’m out of it. The letter had nothing to do with your clock or chair,” and with this denial Bascome turned back toward his own room.
“Good night,” he called to Tom; “that is, unless you’ll join us?”
He paused and looked back.
“No, thank you, I’m going to turn in.”
Tom swung around, and was about to proceed down the corridor, when the torn pieces of the letter Bascome had destroyed caught his eye. By this time the other youth had entered his room, before Tom could call to him that perhaps he had better pick up the scraps.
“Oh, well, leave them there,” mused Tom. “I guess if he doesn’t care whether or not anyone sees them, I oughtn’t to.”
Slowly he walked along, when a piece of paper, rather larger than the other fragments, was turned over by the draft of his walking. It was directly under a hall light, and Tom could not help seeing the words written on it. They stood out in bold relief—three words—and they were these:
the alarm clock
Tom stared at them as if fascinated. They seemed to be written in letters of fire. He stooped and picked up the piece of the torn letter.
“The alarm clock!” murmured Tom. “I’ll wager anything Lentonwaswriting about our clock, and yet Bascome said the letter didn’t have a thing in it about our mystery. I wonder—I wonder if he expects me to believe that—now.”
For a moment he paused, half inclined to go back and have it out with Bascome. Then he realized that this would not be the wisest plan. Besides, he wanted to talk with Phil and Sid.
“I’ll tell them,” he thought. “Maybe they can see through it, for I’ll be hanged if I can. ‘The alarm clock!’ I wonder if I would be justified in picking up the rest of the pieces, and seeing what I could make of them? No! Of course I couldn’t read another fellow’s letter, even to solve the mystery. It’s not serious enough for that.”
Then Tom, after another look at the scrap he had, thrust it into his pocket, as much for the sake of preventing it from falling into the hands of curiosity seekers, as for any other reason.
“We’ll see what Phil and Sid can make of it,” he mused, and then, hearing someone approaching, Tom hastened on to his own room.
“It certainly is queer,” said Phil, when Tom had told him the result of his little excursion. “I think I’d almost have picked up the whole letter.Bascome couldn’t have cared much about it, or he wouldn’t have thrown the pieces into the hall. Guess I’ll go get ’em.”
“No, we can’t do a thing like that,” declared Sid quickly. “I know a better plan.”
“What?” inquired Tom.
“Let’s ask Wallops if he had a note to deliver to Bascome from Lenton. He may have gotten in our room by mistake.”
“Of course!” cried Tom, quickly. “The very thing. Maybe that will help clear it up.”
It was comparatively early, and Wallops was found in the janitors’ quarters.
“No,” he replied, in answer to Sid’s inquiry, “I haven’t seen Mr. Bascome or Mr. Lenton this evening, and I had no note for either of them, nor from one. And I wasn’t in your room.”
“Oh, all right!” exclaimed Phil, quickly, for he did not want to create any talk. “I dare say it was a mistake. Come on, fellows.”
“Well, what do you think now?” asked Tom, as the three were on their way to their room.
“I think either Bascome or Lenton was in our room,” declared Phil.
“Yes, but which one?” asked Sid.
No one could answer him.
Our heroes were in a quandary. They had gotten on the trail of the mystery, and it diverged in two directions. Both paths seemed to lead to one or the other of two students—Bascome or Lenton. To accuse either, or to question them, would mean serious trouble, for it would be considered as an insult. Tom and his chums realized that.
“But what gets me, if either one of themdidtake our clock and chair, is what their motive could have been,” spoke Tom. “Why in the mischief should they take our battered old ticker, leave another in its place, and then make the exchange again?”
“It’s just as easy to answer as to say who has our chair,” declared Phil. “It isn’t in Bascome’s room, that’s certain.”
“And Lenton hasn’t it,” asserted Tom. “I found that out, all right.”
It was the morning after the sensational discoveryof the letter, and they were still discussing it, without apparently getting anywhere. They had tacitly agreed that, without more evidence than they now possessed, it would be folly to go to Bascome again.
“Let’s get out of here,” proposed Tom, after some more talk on the subject. “We’re almost late for chapel as it is.”
It is doubtful if either of the three chums gave much consideration to the services that morning. Their minds were too much filled with other matters.
Dr. Churchill made an announcement to the effect that there might soon be some news to communicate in the matter of the suit against the college.
“At present,” he stated, “the matter is in the hands of the lawyers, and we hope to effect a compromise. If we arrive at one, I shall be most happy to let you young gentlemen know of it. Of course, too, there is the possibility of unfavorable news. But, in any event, I know that you will be loyal to the college.”
“You bet!” cried Bean Perkins, fervently, and he was not rebuked, for the devotional exercises were over.
“I wonder what Prexy meant by bad news?” asked Holly Cross, as he walked over the campus with Tom and several other chums.
“He didn’t mean that we’re going to lose the game with Fairview Saturday, I hope,” put in Kindlings. “We’re going to have long practice this afternoon, and I want every fellow to show up. Simpson, I’m going to give you a chance at left guard in the second half of the game.”
“Thanks!” exclaimed the big Californian, fervently.
The practice on the gridiron that afternoon was the hardest to which the players had yet been subjected. The scrub had been instructed to play for all they were worth against the ’varsity, and the inducement was held out that if any of the second team outplayed the man against him on the regular eleven, that he could replace him in the Fairview game.
This was enough to stir the blood of the scrubs, and they went at the ’varsity hammer and tongs. The result was rather a surprise, for the regulars developed unexpected strength in the line. And even Snail Looper proved that he could do well when he wanted to, for when the backs were sent against him and Bascome, the two held well together, and the wave of human beings, of whom one had the ball, was dashed back, failing to gain in several cases.
There was one particularly hot scrimmage, and Andrews, who was playing left half-back on the scrub, went at the line like a stone from a catapult.He broke through, and Pete Backus and Sid Henderson, who tried to tackle him, missed. Andrews was gathering his speed for a spring down the field for a touchdown, when Phil Clinton, who had circled out of the press, was after him like a shot, and after a daring tackle threw him heavily.
But, somehow or other, Phil slipped, and his foot was doubled under him. When he got up he limped painfully.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Mr. Lighton, anxiously, as he ran up.
“Twisted my ankle.”
“Is it sprained?”
“No, only a little. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
They had his shoe off in a jiffy, and massaged the ankle, but it did little good, and wanting to save his quarter-back for the big game on Saturday, Captain Woodhouse sent in Art Benson, as a substitute. Phil retired to the side lines, tears of chagrin in his eyes, but his friends comforted him with the thought that he would be all right by Saturday if he rested, while, if he didn’t he couldn’t play against Fairview.
The game went on, and, as if nerved by Phil’s injury, the ’varsity played like fiends. They rushed the unfortunate scrub team all over the field, and rolled up more touchdowns than theyhad previously done in practice that season.
“I guess we’ll come out all right,” spoke Kindlings, gleefully, to the coach, as they walked from the field, discussing some new plays that had been tried.
“I’m more hopeful,” answered Mr. Lighton.
A hot bath, a rub down and a vigorous massaging of his ankle with liniment, made Phil feel much better, and that night, propped up in an easy position on the sofa—the seat of honor—the quarter-back received his friends, several of whom dropped in to inquire after him.
“Will you be fit, old man?” asked Holly Cross, anxiously. “I hear that Fairview has it in for us for keeps.”
“Sure I’ll be on hand,” declared Phil, gamely. “This isn’t anything.”
“I hope not,” remarked Kindlings, with a dubious shake of his head. “We can tell better in the morning.” For he well knew that such injuries as Phil’s often became worse in a few hours than they seemed at first.
The captain’s apprehension was realized, for the next morning Phil could not step on his foot, and Dr. Marshall, the college physician, was summoned.
The doctor looked at the swollen ankle, felt of it gently, thereby causing Phil to wince with pain, and then announced:
“No playing for you, Clinton.”
“But I’vegotto play, doctor. I’vegotto be in the game against Fairview Saturday. That’s three days off. Won’t it be well then?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well enough to play if I wear a leather protector?”
“If you play, you may be out of the game the rest of the season,” was the solemn answer. “I must forbid it. You may do yourself serious injury. What you need is complete rest.”
Phil gasped, and held back the exclamation that sprang to his lips—an exclamation partly of bitterness and partly of pain, for the physician was rebandaging the foot. Then he turned his face to the wall, and when the doctor was gone, Tom and Sid sat in silent communion with their chum. For they knew how he felt, and knew that mere words could only make the wounded spirit more sore. Silence was the best balm, and silence there was, with only the fussy clock to mark the passage of the seconds.
Phil’s ankle was even worse the next day, and it was announced that he would not be in the Fairview game, which news cast a gloom over Randall, and caused rejoicing in the camp of their rivals, for Fairview was none too sure of a victory, though they had a fine eleven. Benson, the substitute quarter, was slated for the contest.
There was hard practice every available moment up to the night before the game, and though the team was rather demoralized, the captain and coach, by vigorous words, kept the players up to the mark.
“We’re going to win! We’re going to win!” they said over and over again.
There was a noticeable air of something portending when Dr. Churchill and his colleagues took their seats on the platform at chapel the next morning. The president’s voice was solemn as he read the Scriptures, more solemn as he offered prayer, and when he advanced to the edge of the rostrum to make an announcement, there was a long breath of expectation from the students.
“Is it about football or the trouble, I wonder?” whispered Holly Cross.
“Quiet,” begged Tom.
“Young gentlemen,” began the president, “I regret to say that I have bad news for you. Randall College has lost the first skirmish in the legal battle. The directors have been summoned to court to show cause why they should not vacate the land whereon our buildings stand. The matter had assumed a serious phase, all through the loss of that quit-claim deed.”
There was a buzz of excitement; everyone was whispering to his neighbor, and there was even talking among the members of the faculty.
Dr. Churchill gave a few more facts concerning the matter, stating that though the first move had gone against the college, the Randall legal representatives hoped to be successful in court.
“I might add,” went on the good doctor, “that we are making every effort to locate the missing quit-claim deed. And I might also add that if any of you young gentlemen happen upon it, the faculty and myself, as well as the directors, will be under great obligations to you, if you will turn it over to us.
“To that end, perhaps, I had better describe the deed,” which the president did, at the same time making a few remarks concerning legal matters, and impressing on the students the necessity of taking care of legal papers.
“You will now know the document, if youshould happen to see it,” he concluded, “though I fear we cannot hope for that. But we will not give up yet,” he added, and then the exercises came to an end.
Discussion on the new development of the trouble continued, as the students filed out of chapel, and strolled across the campus, some to lectures, some to studies, while others, who had the early periods free, made for the football field.
“It’s a rotten shame, isn’t it?” exclaimed Holly Cross, as he dug his toe into the pigskin with vicious force. “I wish I had some of the lawyers who are making the trouble where this ball is,” and as the spheroid again sailed high into the air, Holly grinned in delight at his effort.
“Yes, it’s just like Langridge to make trouble,” agreed Tom. “Probably he’s delighted at the turn affairs have taken, and he very likely hopes to see Randall down and out.”
“Well, he won’t!” declared Frank, as he passed the ball to Jerry Jackson. “I feel sure we’re going to win. As sure as I feel that——”
“We’ll put it all over Fairview,” finished Billy Housenlager. “We’ve justgotto do ’em!”
“Glad you feel that way,” spoke Captain Woodhouse. “But with Phil laid up——”
He did not finish, but they all knew what he meant. Up to the last, there was hope that Philmight pull around in time to play at least part of the game, but the doctor soon put an end to this thought.
“It’s utterly out of the question,” he said, and Phil, with a groan, turned his face to the wall.
As if Randall did not have trouble enough, more developed the night before the game. There had been a final meeting of the eleven, and Phil had managed to limp to it on a crutch. Final instructions were given by the coach, some new plays were decided upon, and a particular code of signals, of which there were several in use, was adopted.
“No objections to taking a glass of ginger ale before we turn in, is there, Mr. Lighton?” asked Jerry Jackson of the coach, who was a strict trainer.
“I’ll allow you one,” he answered.
“Come on then, fellows, I’ll stand treat. Got something extra in my allowance this month,” went on the Jersey twin, and he led a crowd of his chums to a small refreshment place that did a thriving business just outside the college grounds.
Whether it was the ginger ale, or the excitement caused by anticipating the game, was not ascertained, but it was a fact that in the night Sid Henderson was taken ill. Tom heard his chum groaning, and, sitting up in bed, asked:
“What’s the matter, old man?”
“I don’t know, but I feel as if I was burning up inside.”
Tom was at Sid’s bed in a moment, and placed the back of his hand on his friend’s cheek.
“Why, you’ve got a fever!” he exclaimed “I’m going to call for Dr. Marshall.”
Wallops was sent for the physician, who pronounced Sid a very sick youth, and ordered his removal to the sick ward, a sort of emergency hospital maintained at Randall.
“I shouldn’t be surprised but what it was the ginger ale,” said the physician, after questioning Sid. “You have a very bad bilious attack.”
“Will I—will I be all right by morning?”
“By morning? Gracious, young man, what do you think we doctors are, magicians? We have to wait for Nature to help us.”
“Then I can’t play.”
“Play? I should say not! You’ve got to stay in bed.”
“Well, wouldn’t that get your goat!” exclaimed Tom, when he heard the news. “Phil and Sid both out of the game. Now weareup against it, for further orders.”
Phil did not answer, but he gritted his teeth, and in the darkness stepped out of bed, bearing his weight on his injured ankle. He could hardly keep back an exclamation of agony, as a sharppain shot through him, and he knew that what he had hoped for—that he might possibly play—was out of the question.
The day dawned cold and fair, ideal weather for football, with no wind to make kicking difficult. The contest was to take place at Randall, and the squad was out early at practice. It was rather a serious gridiron squad, too, for the absence of two of the best players crippled the team in a manner that none cared to think about.
“Jove, but I wish I was going to be with you!” spoke Sid softly, when Tom paid a visit to him, just before the time for calling the game.
“I wish you were,” said the end. “I guess you’d better pray for us, Sid, for we sure are up against it.”
Phil managed to limp out on the side lines, where he sat wrapped in a blanket like an Indian brave, and watched the preliminary practice, unable to keep back the tears that came into his eyes.
There was a big crowd present. Every stand was filled, and there were throngs about the field. George Carter was to play in Sid’s place, and Art Benson would be at quarter. The rest of the team was made up substantially as the one that had played the previous games, save that Frank Simpson was slated to play one half at left guard, dividing with Sam Looper.
It was the first big game of the season, andboth teams were on their mettle. In the stand given over to the cohorts of Fairview there was a big crowd, of which a goodly part were girls from the co-educational institution. Their shrill cheers, songs and cries mingled with the hoarser shouts of the Fairview lads.
“I wonder if Madge and the others are cheering against us?” asked Tom, as he passed the ball to Simpson.
“Well, you can hardly blame them for sticking up for their own college.”
“No, that’s so. Say, they’re a lively eleven, all right, aren’t they?”
“They sure are! Never mind, though, Parsons, we’ll go through ’em all right.”
There had been many changes in the Fairview eleven, but some of the lads who had played before were on the team. There was Lem Sellig, who played quarter, instead of in his old position of left half-back, Frank Sullivan was at right end, and Roger Barns was full-back; Ted Puder was playing left guard.
The practice was over, the toss had been made, and Randall was to kick off. Bean Perkins had led his cheerers in many songs and college yells, and the colors on his cane were frayed from much waving.
The referee’s whistle blew, and Kindlings, with a final glance at his own men and those of Fairview,nodded to Holly Cross, who was to send the ball down the field.
There was a thud as the toe of the big centre met the pigskin, and away it sailed. It was caught by Ed Turton, who was playing left half-back, and he managed to get over about fifteen yards before he was caught and heavily thrown by Tom Parsons. Then came the line up, and the first scrimmage.
At the line came Fred Hanson, the right half-back, aided by his mates. Right for a space between Bert Bascome and Snail Looper he headed, and managed to get through.
“Hold ’em! Hold ’em!” begged Kindlings, desperately, but his men were shoved back, and there was a two-yard gain. It was not much, but it showed the power that was behind the Fairview plays. There was a burst of triumphant cheers from the co-educational supporters, and silence on the part of the cohorts of Randall, as they waited for the next play. It came promptly, and netted three yards. Then a run around right end tore off four yards more, and it looked as if Fairview would rush the ball for a touchdown in short order.
But, in answer to the frantic appeals from Kindlings, his players braced desperately, and held their opponents to such advantage that Fairviewwas forced to kick, and Randall had the ball, and a chance to show what she could do.
“Now, then, boys!” cried Benson, as he began to give the signal, “tear ’em apart!”
It was a heart-meant appeal, but something was lacking. Phil’s magnetic presence was needed, and though Pete Backus, to whom the ball was passed, managed to wiggle through for a yard gain, there was noticed a great strength in the line of Fairview, against which the Randall players hurled themselves. Another try only netted two yards, and then, not wanting to give up the ball by sending it sailing into the enemy’s territory, Benson signalled for a fake kick, Joe Jackson dropped back, and Holly Cross snapped the ball to George Carter, who was playing in Sid’s place.Carter at once passed it to Joe, who ran with it.But, alas for the hopes of Randall! Joe dropped the pigskin, and Jake Johnson, the big centre of Fairview, who had broken through, fell on it.