"Hello! What's up?"
"What's the excitement, Tom?"
Thus his two chums greeted our hero when he entered with the human interrogation mark in tow.
"Something doing," responded Tom briefly.
"Did you trace the empty bottle so soon?" asked Jack.
"No, I didn't have time. But George here—out with it! Tell 'em what you told me."
"I was coming along," began George, "when Tom ran into me and knocked———"
"Never mind those horrible details," advised Tom, reflectively rubbing that portion of his anatomy that had come in contact with George. "Cut along faster."
"Well, I was coming to tell Tom that I saw Sam Heller being taken to the doctor's office by old Appleby," went on George.
"Get out!" cried Bert, incredulously.
"Sam Heller!" gasped Jack. "I wonder if Appleby's found out that it was Sam who poisoned his horses, and set the hay on fire?"
"That's it, I believe," said George. "That's why I came to tell Tom.You're cleared all right now, old man."
His chums looked at him, but Tom only shook his head. "No such luck," he said in disappointed tones. "Sam may have been corralled by the old farmer, but it's for something else besides the fire and poisoning."
"What makes you think so?" asked Jack. "Why won't you believe SamHeller guilty, Tom."
"Because I know he isn't."
"You do? Then you must know who is."
"No, that doesn't follow."
"Look here!" cried Jack, coming close to his chum, and placing his hands on his shoulders, the while looking him squarely into the eyes. "I can't understand you. Here you go and say Sam isn't guilty, and you know it. And yet you say you don't know who did the business. You didn't do it yourself, I'm sure, and yet———"
"Say Jack," spoke Tom gently. "Believe me, if I wassureof what I onlysuspectnow I couldn't really tell who poisoned those horses. There's a mystery about it, and I'm trying to get to the bottom of it. I want my name cleared more than anything else in the world, but I want it done in the right way. I don't want to cast suspicion on the wrong person. Now, George, tell us all you know about Sam being caught. It may help some."
"Well, I don't know an awful lot," went on George, as he accepted a chair that Jack pushed out for him. "I was coming in from a little trip to town when I saw, coming across the campus, two fellows—at least I thought they were two of our fellows, but when they got under one of the lights I saw it was Sam and the old farmer. And, believe me, Appleby had hold of Sam as if he was a thief and him the constable."
"As if Appleby was the thief?" asked Bert.
"No, as if Sam was. What's the matter with you fellows, anyhow, that you can't understand United States talk?" and George looked around half indignantly.
"The trouble is that you mix up your pronouns," said Tom. "Go ahead.We got as far as that Appleby had hold of Sam as if Sam was a thief."
"Yes, and Sam was demanding to be let go, while the old farmer was saying: 'Now I've got ye! Consarn ye! I'll teach ye t' come sneakin' around my place! I'll have ye up afore th' doctor'!"
The boys all laughed at George's realistic imitation of the farmer's talk, for it was quite correct.
"And then what happened?" asked Jack.
"That's all, except that I came on here in a hurry, and Sam was fairly dragged into the doctor's office by Appleby."
There was silence in the room of the chums for a moment, and then Bert remarked:
"Well, Tom, what do you make of it?"
"I don't know," was the answer, slowly given. "It looks queer, and yetSam may have only trespassed on Appleby's place by chance."
"Don't you believe it!" exclaimed Jack. "He had some object all right."
"And it's up to us to find out what it is," added Bert.
"No, I'll try it," insisted Tom. "This is my game."
"But we're going to help you play it!" exclaimed Jack. "What's the matter with you, anyhow? Don't you want us to help you clear yourself of this suspicion that's hanging over you?"
"Of course I do, but———"
"'But me no buts,' old man. Just you let us help you out in this. Now it wouldn't look well for you to go around sneaking under the doctor's windows, trying to hear what's going on. But it wouldn't hurt either of us," and he indicated, by a sweeping gesture, himself and his two close chums.
"So, Tom, my boy," he went on, "we'll just see what we can learn. The doctor's sure to hold an audience with Appleby and Sam in the big front office, and he always has a window open, for Merry is a fresh air fiend, you know. Some of the talk will leak out and it may give us a clew."
"All right," assented Tom, after a moment's thought. "Go ahead. I don't believe it will amount to anything, though. Then I can go on with my drug store end of it," and he briefly explained to George where he had been headed for when the interruption came.
"Shall we all go?" asked Bert. "Won't it look sort of queer for three of us to be hanging around the doctor's house?"
"It will," assented Jack, "and, therefore, we won't all hang out in the same place. I'll get under the big office window; Bert, you can take the window on the other side, and George will guard the front door."
"Guard the front door? For what?"
"Well, just sort of drape yourself around it," suggested Jack, who had assumed the direction of matters. "Maybe you can overhear something as Sam and Appleby come out. I don't just like this sort of thing," he added, "but the end justifies the means, I think."
Tom nodded gravely. The stain against his name had affected him more than he cared to admit. The three lads went out and Tom sat down in moody silence to await their return. They were not long away, and came back together, rather silent.
"Well?" asked Tom questioningly, as his chums entered.
"Nothing much," answered Jack in despondent tones. "We were almost too late, but I did manage to overhear something. Sam and Appleby came out a short time after we got there. It seems that the farmer caught Sam sneaking around his barn, and as he's been suspicious, and on the watch ever since the poisoning of his horses, he rushed out in a hurry and collared him."
"What explanation did Sam make?" asked Tom.
"All I could hear was that it was a mistake, and that he wandered off the road in the darkness."
"The same as we did when we got in the corn," said Tom. "So that's all there was to it?"
"Except that Appleby was ripping mad, and threatened to have the next school lad arrested whom he found on his property. We'll have to make a new course for cross-country runs after this I guess, for we used to run across his big meadow."
"Yes," assented Tom. "Well, I didn't think it would amount to anything. I'm much obliged, though."
"You wait!" insisted Jack. "This isn't the bottom of it yet, not by a long shot."
"What do you mean?" asked Tom curiously.
"I mean that Sam isn't such a loon as to get off the road on toAppleby's land just by mistake, or because it was dark."
"You mean he went there purposely?"
"I sure do."
"What for?" and Tom gazed curiously at his chum.
"That's what I've got to find out. He had some object, and I shouldn't be surprised but what it was you, Tom."
"Me?"
"Yes. He hasn't succeeded in driving you out of the Hall as he hoped, and now he's up to some more mean tricks."
Tom shook his head. He had a curious disbelief in Sam's guilt.
"Go ahead on that line if you like, Jack," he said. "But I can't agree with you. I'm going to follow my bottle clew to-morrow, and nothing the others could say would make Tom admit that Sam had a hand in poisoning the horses, or in setting the hay on fire.
"But look how ready he was to accuse you," insisted Bert.
"That was only to clear himself," said Tom. "The fact of his sweater being like mine was a strange coincidence, and he had to say something."
"He was ready enough to accuse you," put in Jack. "Say, Tom, old man, why don't you come out and tell us where you went that night—and why? Tell us what you did—how your sweater got away from you, and was found on the farm. Go ahead!"
"Do!" urged Bert.
But Tom shook his head.
"I can't—not yet," he said. "I promised Ray———"
He stopped suddenly. His chums leaned forward eagerly.
"Well, I can't say any more," he finished. "Now let's forget all this, and have a game of chess, somebody. It will make me sleep good."
"I'm going to cut," said George. "You fellows can play."
Tom and Jack sat down to the royal game, while Bert got out a book, and for a time silence reigned in the apartment.
Tom made an early trip to town the next day. He went directly to the drugstore, the torn label of which was on the bottle he had found to contain a trace of poison.
Without going into details, but announcing who he was, he asked if the druggist could give him any information as to who had bought the cyanide.
"Well, I can look at my records," said the pharmacist. "I keep a list of all persons to whom I sell poison, and make them sign a receipt for it. Of course I have no means of knowing that the names are true ones. There are some poisons I sell only on a doctor's prescription, but it is not against the local law to dispense cyanide, and it has many legitimate uses. I'll look it up for you."
He disappeared behind his ground-glass partition, to return presently, announcing:
"My clerk made that sale. He'll be in presently, and he can tell you who bought the stuff. The name signed is Jacob Crouse, however."
"Jacob Crouse," mused Tom, and he slowly shook his head. Yet there was a gleam of hope in his eyes. "Maybe it isn't him after all."
Tom spent a fretful half hour, waiting for the clerk to come in, and he was nervous lest some of the school lads enter and question him as to his presence in the place. For Tom was not anxious that his errand be known except to his chums. But none from Elmwood Hall came in, and shortly the clerk arrived. There was a whispered conference between him and the proprietor, and the clerk addressed Tom.
"You wish to know who bought cyanide, some time ago?" asked the young man.
"Yes," said Tom. "Can you describe Jacob Crouse?"
"I don't know that he gave me the right name," said the clerk. "In fact I suspect he didn't. But he was a young fellow, about your own age and build."
"He was!" exclaimed Tom, and his voice showed disappointment.
"Yes, but he was not so well dressed. In fact he was rather shabby. He said he wanted the stuff to kill rats, and asked the best way to prepare it. I tried to sell him some regular rat poison, but he wanted the cyanide. I told him to mix it with corn meal. He said there were lots of rats on his father's farm."
"He said that?" cried Tom.
"Yes. Oh, they make up all sorts of stories when they want to get suspicious stuff, though there's no law here against cyanide. Why, did some one of your friends poison someone, or commit suicide?"
"Oh, not as bad as that," replied Tom. "Is that all you can tell me about this—this person?"
[Transcriber's note: The next piece of text has several missing fragments, which seem to have been caused during printing. I have indicated the missing text with brackets.]
"Well, about all—hold on, though, he had a big scar on—let me see—on his left cheek. It extended from his eye almost to his [missing words] livid, ugly scar."
[missing line]
[missing words] good! [missing words] I'm much obliged to you, and with a smile of hope our hero hurried from the drug store, followed by the curious glances of the proprietor and the clerk.
Tom Fairfield hurried on back toward Elmwood Hall. His brain was busy with many thoughts. At first he felt a spirit of elation.
"A scar—a big scar," he murmured. "Then it couldn't have been him, unless he got hurt after I saw him. And yet if he had, it was too short a time for a scar to form. The clerk would have said a wound, and not a scar. And yet—oh, I'm not sure after all! It may have been him, and he may have gotten into a fight after he left me. He was desperate. And until I am sure it wasn't him I can't say anything, for mother's sake, as well as his. I can't bring disgrace on her, even though I suffer myself. Oh, hang it all! If I hadn't had that quarrel with Appleby they never would have suspected me, and I wouldn't have had all this trouble."
Poor Tom, hardly knowing what to do, or which way to turn, flung himself down on the couch in his room, and thought deeply. Neither Jack nor Bert was in and the apartment was quiet.
"If I could only reach him," mused Tom, "I could get him to explain, or even come here and clear me. And yet I can't even say I met him, and helped him, on account of my promise, and what saying such a thing would mean. But he might release me from my promise, and even help me to prove my innocence."
Then Tom thought of other things—of how much easier it would be to drop out of school entirely and let matters take their course.
"But I won't!" he exclaimed, sitting up and clenching his fists. "I'm in this fight to stay. I'm going to clear my name and do it in the right way. To leave now would be to do just what Sam Heller most wants, and I won't give him that satisfaction. I'll stick!"
Jack and Bert came bursting in, having heard from George that Tom was back.
"Any luck?" asked Jack, for they knew of Tom's trip to the drug store.
"Well, in a way, yes, and yet not. I found out who bought the poison."
"Was it Sam Heller?" asked Bert eagerly.
"No," answered Tom. "Haven't I told you that I'm sure he hadn't any hand in it?"
"You wait and see," advised Jack. "I think you're away off, Tom. But say, you want to come out to football practice this afternoon. Strict orders for everyone to be on the job."
"Oh, what's the use?"
"Lots! What's getting into you lately?" asked Bert.
"Oh, you know how it is. Sam is sure to try to make a fumble for me; and what's the fun of playing when you don't know what minute you'll lose the game?"
"Why don't you complain of him to Morse, or Mr. Jackson?" asked Jack.
"What good would it do? Sam would get on his ear, and say I was away off. Then, too, almost everyone would say I was doing spite work. No, I guess I'll just keep out of the game."
"No, you won't!" exclaimed Jack with a laugh. "You'll come out to practice, and Bert and I will watch Sam as a cat does a mouse. He'll get no chance to try any of his tricks."
Thus urged, Tom gave in, and donned his suit. The practice was hard and snappy that afternoon against the scrub. The regular eleven, made desperate by the recent drubbings administered to it, played fiercely, with the result that several touchdowns were scored.
"This is something like!" exulted the coach.
"Yes, if they'll only keep it up and play like this on Saturday," assented Captain Morse Denton. "But I'm afraid of a slump."
"Oh, I guess not. Say! Look at Tom go through with the ball."
"Yes. He's playing better. I'm sorry he and Sam are on the outs. I'm always afraid of a clash."
"Yes, that's likely. See him go! Say! if he'll play that way Saturday we'll wipe up the gridiron with Holwell."
"Let's hope so!" exclaimed the captain.
Indeed, Tom was playing as he had seldom played before. And Sam was passing the ball to him accurately. There was not a fumble.
Perhaps it was because he realized that he was being narrowly-watched, not only by Tom but by Bert and Jack as well. In fact Jack, at the beginning of practice, had taken the opportunity to whisper into Sam's ear:
"None of your funny business now!"
"What do you mean?" asked Sam with a show of innocence.
"Oh, you know very well what I mean," insisted Jack. "If you fumble the ball when you're passing it to me, or Tom or Bert, I'll see you afterward, and it won't be a pleasant interview, either," and Jack playfully dug Sam in the ribs.
"Here! What are you doing?" demanded the quarterback.
"That's a sample of what to expect," said Jack grimly.
And so the practice went on, hard, and fast, and the hearts of the coach, captain and players were glad, for they felt that Elmwood Hall was coming back into her own. Even hazing, which went on intermittently, ceased in favor of football practice.
Meanwhile nothing more had been heard about the hay fire, the poisoning of the horses, nor about Sam's trouble with the old farmer. In regard to the latter, Sam had boastingly explained to his chums, whence it sifted to our friends, that he had gotten the best of Appleby.
"The old codger!" Sam exclaimed. "I didn't hurt his land anyhow. It was so all-fired dark that I couldn't see where I was going."
"What were you doing over there?" asked one of his few admirers—one who hoped for a ride in Sam's auto.
"Oh, just out for my health," replied Sam, with a wink at his crony,Nick.
As to Tom's position, it was the same as it had been. No official action had been taken against him—indeed none could be, since there was no good evidence to connect him with the crime. And yet he was suspected, and could not seem to prove his innocence.
"It's the queerest thing why he won't tell about where he went that night when he came in, smelling of smoke, and later, how he lost his sweater," commented Jack to Bert. "If I didn't know Tom, I'd say he had some hand in the business."
"And yet Tom didn't. And it wasn't his pin."
"Of course not. But a lot of the fellows think he's guilty. And Sam keeps his crowd on edge about it. He's always referring to Tom as the 'poisoner' and so he keeps the thing alive, when, if it wasn't mentioned, it might die out."
"That's right. The mean sneak! And yet I guess Tom would rather have it kept alive until he makes out his case, than to have it die down, and the suspicion still be against him."
"Oh, of course. And yet it doesn't seem as if he had a chance to make good."
"Oh, you leave it to Tom," said Bert. "He's got pluck, and if he has any decent sort of luck he'll pull out ahead."
"Well, maybe. Tom Fairfield's luck is proverbial you know. Look how he came out ahead in the shipwreck, and the finding of the treasure in the old mill."
The two chums were still discussing the case of their friend when they entered their room, and saw our hero busy writing letters.
"Who's the girl?" asked Jack, playfully.
"There doesn't happen to be any particular one," answered Tom with a smile. "I'm writing letters, trying to pick up a new clew to this mysterious case."
"Still seeking clews?" asked Bert.
"Of course. I'm not going to stop until I get what I want. Anything new outside?"
"Nothing much, except our football stock has gone up a few more points.Everyone seems to think we're going to do Holwell good and proper."
"I hope so," murmured Tom, as he bent over his writing. "I'm going to play my best, if they let me go in the game."
"Oh, I guess they will," said Jack; and then the silence in the room was broken only by the scratching of Tom's pen.
"'Rah! 'Rah! 'Rah! Elmwood!"
"Three cheers for Holwell!"
"Now, boys, all together, give 'em the 'Chase Down the Field!' song!"
"Over this way, Elmwood. We'll run through the signals again!"
"Over here, Holwell, for some snappy work!"
These were only a few of the many things heard on the Elmwood gridiron the Saturday of one of the big games. The grandstands were piling up with their crowds, many dashes of color being added by the hats and wraps of the girls, while the sweaters and cap-bands of their brothers—or perhaps other girls' brothers—-increased the riot of color.
"Oh, what a fine looking lot of fellows the Elmwood Hall boys are," confided one girl to her chum.
"Do you think so? I think they look small compared to the Holwell players."
"Why Mabel, how can you say such a thing? There's Billy over there.Isn't he stunning? Did you see him kick?"
"Oh, there goes Fred with the ball!" and the other girl with her eyes on the Holwell contingent, never looked at her friend who had looks only for "Billy" who was lucky enough to play on Tom's team.
There was a consultation of the officials and a toss for choice. Holwell got the kick-off, and Captain Denton was rather glad of it, for he had instructed his lads, in case they got the ball, to make the most of the early periods of the game, and rush the pigskin for all they were worth.
"If we can get a touchdown in the first period it will almost mean winning the game," he said to the coach.
"That's right. Well, play as fast as you can, for I think we're in for a storm, and there are too many chances on a wet field to make anything certain. Strike while the iron is hot. Slam-bang through for a touchdown, if you can, before the rain comes."
It was a raw, chilly day, with every promise of rain or snow, and though the crowds in the stands kept themselves warm by stamping their feet and singing, there was much discomfort.
Tom had been given his old position back of the line, and as he trotted out for practice he felt a sense of elation in the coming struggle.
"I'm not going to think about that miserable old business," he told himself, but his resolution received a rude shock when, as he passed where Sam was talking to one of the Holwell players, the bully was heard to say:
"Yes, lots of us think he dropped the poison in the mangers to get even with Appleby. But of course there's nothing proven."
"I see. A sort of Scotch verdict."
"Something like that. I should think he'd get out of the eleven at least, if not out of the school, but he sticks."
"Indeed I do!" murmured Tom, clenching his fists, and almost deciding to challenge Sam. But he knew a row would do no good, and would only hurt his case; so he kept silent.
"Line up!" came the call, and with the last of the preliminaries the practice balls were called in, and the new, yellow one placed on a little mound of earth in the center of the field.
There was that ever-inspiring thrill as the spheroid was booted high into the air. Tom had the luck to grab it and then, with fairly good interference, he dashed down the field.
"Stick to him, boys! Stick to him!" yelled the captain as he raced onward. But some of the Holwell school players broke through, and Tom was thrown heavily.
"Now, boys, tear 'em up!" entreated Morse, as the first scrimmage was to come. Sam began on a signal that would have sent Tom through guard and tackle, but Morse, hearing it, quickly stepped to the quarterback, whispering:
"Not yet! Tom's too winded. Give him a chance to get his breath. Try a forward pass."
Sam scowled, but he had to obey. It had been his intention to play Tom fiercely until, out of weariness, our hero would have been [missing words] or would have played so raggedly that he would be sent to the side lines. But Sam's plan was frustrated.
The forward pass was not much of a success, and a fake kick was called for. This netted a slight gain and then Morse again whispered to Sam.
"Let Tom take the ball through now."
The signal was given, and, with head well down, Tom hit the opposing line on the run. It held better than he had expected it would, and he was dizzy with the shock, but he had made a good gain, and there came a yell of delight from the supporters of Elmwood Hall.
Then the game sea-sawed back and forth, with matters a little in favor of Tom's team.
"Get a touchdown! Get a touchdown!" pleaded the captain.
"By Jove I will!" thought Tom, grimly. "If I only get half a chance."
He got it a moment later. A fake kick was called for, but there was a fumble, and Tom grabbed up the ball on the bounce. Tucking it under his arm, he ran for a hole he spied in the other line. Hands reached out for him, but he eluded them, and the fullback of Holwell, having been drawn in fatally close, was not able to stop our hero, who was running well.
"Touchdown! Touchdown!" screamed the crowd, as Tom sprinted over mark after mark.
"I'll do it!" he cried fiercely.
Now the other players had disentangled themselves from the mass into which they had been hurled, and were after him. One of the fleetest was approaching our hero.
"I've got to out-distance him," murmured Tom, looking back over his shoulder, and he let out a little more of the speed he had been reserving. Then, panting and weary, he crossed the goal line———and only just in time, for, as he leaped over it, the hand of the Holwell fullback was on his jacket.
"Touchdown!" gasped Tom, as he fell on the ball.
Then broke out a riot of cheers, cries and songs of victory! The goal was missed, owing to a strong wind, but the Elmwood Hall lads cared little for that. They were in winning luck, they felt sure.
The first period was practically over, and soon came the second, during which Holwell tried desperately to score. But she could not, though several of her players were injured in the fierce rushes, and two of Elmwood's lads had to be replaced by substitutes.
It began to rain shortly after the third period started, and it came down in such torrents that the field was soon a sea of mud and mud-soaked grass. Still the game went on, though many of the spectators deserted the field.
"Keep playing! Keep playing!" begged Captain Denton. "We can win if we only hold them from scoring."
At first it looked as if this was not to be, for the Holwell team was heavier, and this told on a slippery gridiron. But Tom and his mates had pluck, and they held well in the rushes. Once there was a chance for Elmwood to make another touchdown, but Jack Fitch slipped and fell in a mud-puddle, the ball rolling out of his hands. Then a Holwell played grabbed it, and kicked it out of danger on the next line-up.
"Only a few minutes more," called the coach encouragingly, as the fourth quarter neared a close. "Hold 'em, boys!"
And hold Tom and his chums did. They had lost the ball on downs, and it was dangerously near their goal mark. But they were like bulldogs now—fighting in the last ditch. A touchdown and a goal would beat them. It must not be!
There was a short, sharp, quick signal, and one of the Holwell players seemed to take the ball around left end. But Tom's sharp eye saw that it was a trick play, and he cried to his mates to beware. They did not hear him, and nearly all of them rushed to intercept the ball. Tom, however, swung the other way, and headed for the player who really had the pigskin.
On the latter came with a rush. He was a big tackle, and Tom was much smaller. Yet he did not hesitate.
"Look out!" yelled the Holwell player, hoping to intimidate Tom, as he rushed at him. But Tom was not made of the material that frightens easily. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself for the tackle. He fairly hurled himself at the man, through a mist of rain, and he caught him. Down they went together in a heap, Tom groaning as he felt his left ankle giving way under the strain.
In vain the big tackle tried to get up and struggle on. Tom held fast; and then it was all over, for the other Elmwood players, seeing their mistake, hurried to Tom's aid, and a small human mountain piled up on him and the Holwell lad.
"Down!" howled the latter, ceasing his wriggling. The whistle blew, ending the game, with the ball but a scant foot from Elmwood's goal line.
"Good boy!" called Captain Denton into Tom's ear. "You saved our bacon for us."
"I'm glad I did," replied Tom, limping around.
"Are you hurt much?" asked Morse.
"No, only a bit of sprained ankle. I'll be all right in a little while, I guess."
"It was great! Simply great!" exclaimed Jack a few hours later, when he and Tom and Bert sat in their room, the smell of arnica filling the apartment, coming from Tom's bandaged ankle. "You sure played your head off, old man!"
"I know I nearly played my leg off," agreed Tom, with a wry face. "I can just step on it, and that's all."
"Never mind, we beat 'em," consoled Bert. "And you did it, Tom."
"Nonsense. It was team work. Sam played a fair game too. That helped a lot. I was afraid of him at first."
"He didn't dare do anything," said Jack. "I told him I'd have my eye on him."
They talked over the plays in detail. Tom was just beginning to feel sleepy when there came a knock on the door.
"Come in," he called, for it was not yet the hour for lights to be out, and even a professor would find nothing out of the way. One of the school messengers entered.
"Here's a note for you, Mr. Fairfield," he Said. "A special delivery letter."
Tom read it quickly. A change came over his face.
"I've got to go out!" he exclaimed, crumpling up the missive. He reached for his raincoat limping across the room.
"Go out in this storm!" cried Jack. "You oughtn't to!"
"Not with a lame ankle," added Bert.
"I've got to," insisted Tom. "It means more than you think," and telling his chums not to sit up for him, he hurried out into the storm and darkness.
"Well, what do you think of that?" gasped Bert.
"Isn't he the limit?" demanded Jack. "Running off that way before you have a chance to draw your breath. But that's just like Tom Fairfield, anyhow."
"Isn't it? What do you imagine he's up to, this time?"
"Give it up. It must be something important, to go out in this storm, after a hard football game."
"And with an ankle that's on the blink, speaking poetically."
They looked at each other, and in the silence that followed their exclamation after Tom left, they heard the dash of rain on the window, and the howl of the wind as it scattered the cold drops about. For it was a cold November storm that had suddenly descended, not cold enough to snow, yet chilling.
"He said it meant more to him than we thought," spoke Bert, musingly.
"And that's only one thing," said Jack.
"You mean the poison business?"
"Sure."
"Maybe we'd better follow him," suggested Bert. "He may stumble or fall, and get hurt."
"Tom doesn't like anyone to follow him. I guess we'd better stay where we are until he gets back."
Jack got up to walk about the room and quiet his nerves that, all on edge after the football game, had been further excited by Tom's strange action. Suddenly he came to a halt and exclaimed:
"He dropped his letter, Bert. It's here on the floor."
Jack picked up the crumpled sheet. It had been wadded up with the envelope, and the latter showed the blue special delivery stamp.
"Had we better—Oh, of course we can't read it," said Jack. "Only I wish I knew what it was that made Tom go out in such a hurry."
He walked toward his chum's desk, intending to thrust the letter in it, but, as he did so, his eye caught a few words that he could not help reading. They were:
"Meet me down the lane. I'll explain everything. Sorry you had the trouble. I'm straight again.
"Ray Blake," murmured Jack. "Ray Blake. I never heard that name before, and I never knew Tom to mention it. And yet—Oh, hang it all, Bert!" he ejaculated. "You might as well know as much as I know, though I couldn't help reading this much," and he told his chum what he had seen.
"What does it mean?" asked Bert.
"Give it up, except I think that this is the beginning of the end.Someone is evidently going to confess."
"And clear Tom?"
"It looks that way. I wish he'd taken us into his confidence. We might have helped him. Wow, what a night!"
There came a fiercer blast of the storm, and a harder dash of rain against the window.
The two chums decided they could do nothing. They would have to wait until Tom returned. And they sat in anxious silence, until that should happen.
"What lane do you think was meant in the letter?" asked Bert, when Jack had placed the missive in Tom's desk.
"The lane leading to Appleby's farm, maybe."
"And if Tom goes there he may get into another row with the old farmer."
"Not much danger to-night. I guess Appleby will stay in where it's dry and warm. I wish Tom had."
Meanwhile the subject of their remarks was tramping on through the storm. His ankle pained him very much, and he realized that he would be better off in bed. But something drove him forward. He saw daylight ahead, even through the blackness of the night.
"At last!" Tom murmured, as he plunged on. "I'll see him, and get him to release me from my promise. Maybe he'll own up that he did the thing himself, and that will free me, though it will be terrible for mother. She never dreamed that Ray would get into such trouble.
"I wonder which of my letters reached him? And why did he have to pick out such a night to want to see me? Well, I give it up. I'll have to wait until I have a talk with him. I wonder what his plans are?"
Thus musing, and half talking to himself, Tom staggered on through the rain and darkness. He had to be careful of his ankle, for he did not want to permanently injure himself, nor get so lame that he could not play in future football games.
"Let's see," said Tom, coming to a halt after an uphill struggle against the November gale. "The lane ought to be somewhere around here." It was so dark that he could scarcely see a few feet ahead of him, and a lantern would have been blown out in an instant. "I hope Appleby isn't prowling around," he went on. "It would look sort of awkward if he caught me. I wish Ray had named some other place. And yet, it was here I saw him the other time. Maybe it will be all right."
Tom went on a little farther, stepping into mud puddles, and slipping off uneven stones, sending twinges of pain through his sprained ankle.
"I guess I'm there now," he murmured as he felt a firm path under his feet. "Now to see if Ray is here."
Tom had advanced perhaps a hundred feet down the lane that led from the main road to the farm of Mr. Appleby when he came to an abrupt halt.
"Was that a whistle, or just the howling of the wind?" he asked himself, half aloud. He paused to listen.
"It was a whistle," he answered himself. "I'll reply."
He shrilled out a call through the storm and darkness, in reply to the few notes he had heard.
"Are you there?" demanded a voice.
"Yes. Is that you, Ray?" asked Tom.
"Ray? No! who are you?" came the query.
Tom felt his heart sink. Had he made a mistake? He did not know what to do.
Through the darkness a shape loomed up near him. He started back, and then came a dazzling flash of light. It shone in his face—one of those portable electric torches. By the reflected glare Tom saw that it was held and focused on him by a ragged man—by a man who seemed to be a tramp—a man with a broad, livid scar running from his eye down his cheek nearly to his mouth!
They stood staring at each other—Tom Fairfield and the ragged man, the latter holding the electric torch so that it was focused on our hero. And yet this did not prevent some of the rays from glinting back and revealing himself. He seemed too surprised to make any move, and, as for Tom himself, he remained motionless, not knowing what to do. He had come out in the storm expecting to meet a certain person, and a totally different one had appeared, and yet one whom he much desired to meet.
"Well," finally growled the ragged man. "What is it, young feller?Was you lookin' for me?"
"Not exactly," replied Tom with a half smile, "and yet I'm glad to see you."
"Oh, you are, eh? Well, I don't know as I can say the same. What do you want, anyhow?"
"A few words with you."
"And s'posin' I don't want any words with you?"
"I fancy it will be to your advantage to talk to me," said Tom coolly. He was glad of a chance to stand still, for his ankle was paining him very much, and even though the rain was coming down in torrents, and it was cold and dreary, he did not mind, for he felt that at last he was at the end of the trail that meant the clearing of his name.
"Nice time for a talk," sneered the tramp. "If you have anything to say, out with it. I'm not going to stand here all night."
"I don't fancy the job myself," remarked Tom easily. "In the first place, you came here to meet the same person I did, I think."
"What makes you think so?" asked the tramp uneasily, and he lowered his light so that it no longer pointed in Tom's face.
"Well, I have reasons. Assuming that you did come here to meet a certain Ray Blake, what do you want of him?"
"I'm not going to tell you—how did you know I wanted to see Ray?" stammered the ragged man, hastily correcting himself.
"He told me so," replied Tom frankly. "Now I want you to let him alone after this. You've done him harm enough, and you have done much to ruin his life. I want you to promise not to make any more attempts to force him to lead the kind of a life you're leading."
"S'posin' I won't?"
"Then I'll make you!"
"You'll make me? Come, that's pretty good! That's rich, that is! Ha! You'll make me, young feller? Why it'll take more'n you to make me do what I don't want to do."
"I fancy not," said Tom easily, and with a cautious movement he advanced a step nearer the tramp. The latter did not appear to notice it.
"Well, what else do you want?" asked the ragged fellow. "That's not sayin' I'm goin' to do what you asked me first, though," he sneered. His light was now flickering about on the rain-soaked ground, making little rings of illumination.
"Will you tell me how you got that scar on your cheek?" asked Tom suddenly.
Involuntarily the man's hand went to the evidence of the old wound. Up flashed the light into Tom's face again, and as it was held up there came this sharp question, asked with every evidence of fear:
"What—what do you know about that?"
"I know more than you think I do," said Tom, still speaking with a confidence he did not feel. Again he took a cautious step forward. He was now almost within leaping distance of the tramp.
"Well then, if you know so much there's no need of me telling you," sneered the ragged man. "I've had enough of this," he went on, speaking roughly. "I don't see why I should waste time talking to you in this confounded rain. I'm going to leave."
"Not until you answer me one more question," said Tom firmly, and he gathered himself together for that which he knew must follow.
"Seems to me you're mighty fond of askin' questions," sneered the tramp, "an' you don't take the most comfortable places to do it in. Well, fire ahead, and I'll answer if I like."
Tom paused a moment. He looked about in the surrounding blackness, as if to note whether help was at hand, or perhaps to discover if the person he had come out to meet was near. But, there was no movement. There was no sound save the swish of the rain about the two figures so strangely contrasted, confronting one another. Off in the distance, down the hill, could be seen the dim lights in the old farmhouse of Mr. Appleby.
"Well?" asked the tramp, in a hard voice. "Go ahead, an' get done with it. I'm tired of standing here." He had released his thumb from the spring of the electric torch, and the light went out, making the spot seem all the blacker by contrast.
Tom drew in his breath sharply. Taking a stride forward, and reaching out his two muscular arms in the darkness, he asked in a low voice:
"How much did you pay for that cyanide of potassium, Jacob Crouse?"
Tom could hear the surprised gasp from the tramp, he could hear his teeth chatter, not with cold, but from fright, and a moment later, with a half audible cry, the man turned and fled away in the storm and darkness.
"No, you don't!" cried Tom, and with, a spring he sought to grab the ragged fellow. But the lad was just the fraction of a second too late, and though he did manage to grasp a portion of the tramp's coat, the ragged and rotten cloth parted in his hand.
"I'll get you yet!" exclaimed Tom fiercely, as he took up the pursuit in the darkness. He had been expecting this, and yet it had come so suddenly that he was not quite prepared for it. He had hoped to get near enough to the tramp, undetected, to grab him before asking that question which so startled the fellow. Now the man, on whom so much depended in the clearing of Tom's name, was sprinting down the farm lane.
"My ankle!" gasped Tom, as a sudden turn on it sent a twinge of pain through him. "If it wasn't for that I'd stand a better chance. And yet I'm not going to give up. I've got to get him, or all my work will go for nothing."
On he ran, the rain-soaked ground giving forth scarcely a sound save when he or the man ahead of him stepped into some mud puddle, of which there were many.
Tom, however, could hear the footfalls of the tramp, who was seeking to escape, and by their nearness he judged that the fellow was not very far in advance.
"He hasn't much the start of me," mused Tom. "But if he gets out on the main road he can easily give me the slip. I've got to corner him in this lane."
The lane was a long one, bordered on either side by big fields, some of which were pastures, where the patient cattle stood in the storm, and others whence fall crops had been gathered by the farmer. Tom glanced ahead, and from side to side, to see if the tramp had leaped a fence and was seeking to get away across some pasture. But he saw nothing, and was aware of a dim moving spot just ahead of him. It was as if the spot was a little lighter in darkness than the surrounding night.
"He's in the lane yet, I think," said Tom, to himself, trying to run so as to bring as little weight as possible on his injured ankle. "At least I hope he is. And the lane doesn't end yet for some distance."
A moment later he was given evidence that the fellow was still running straight ahead. There came a muttered exclamation, and the sound of splashing water. Then there shone a brilliant patch of light for an instant. The tramp had blundered into some puddle, and had flashed his electric torch to get his bearings. This Tom saw, and he also saw that the man had increased the distance between them.
"He's going to get away from me if I can't do a little better sprinting work," murmured Tom grimly. "If I was making a touchdown I'd have to do better than this. I'll just pretend that I am out for a touchdown."
Clenching his teeth to keep back exclamations of pain, that, somehow or other, would force themselves out, as his ankle twinged him, Tom swept on. He fancied he was gaining a bit, for he could hear the labored breathing of the man ahead of him.
"Wind's giving out!" thought Tom, and he was glad that he was well trained. Undoubtedly the life of dissipation the tramp had led would tell on him. He could not keep up the race long. And yet the lane must soon end.
"I've got to get him! I've got to get him!" said Tom to himself, over and over again, and he lowered his head and raced on in the storm and darkness.
He came to the same puddle where the tramp had flashed his light, and the muddy water splashed high. It was slippery, too, and, in an endeavor to maintain his balance, Tom further wrenched his ankle.
"I'll be laid up for fair!" he groaned. "No more football for me this season. Well, I can't help it. This is more important. Oh, if I can only land him in jail where he belongs!"
Recovering himself, he dashed on. He could still hear the lumbering footsteps of the tramp. And then suddenly, out of the blackness ahead of Tom there came a strange sound. It was like a grunt. Then the echo of voices.
"Look out where you're going!" someone exclaimed.
"Get out of my way!" snarled another, and Tom recognized the tramp's tones.
"Ray! Ray Blake!" cried Tom, as he again heard the first voice. "Hold that man! Don't let him get away. That's Jake Crouse!"
Tom Fairfield heard the sound of a struggle ahead of him in the blackness. He heard the panting of breaths, heavily drawn, and the impact of blows.
"I'm coming, Ray! I'm coming. Hold him!" yelled Tom. "Don't let him get away!"
"I—I won't, Tom!" was the answer. "But—hurry up!"
Tom sprang forward, but it was almost his undoing, for he slipped in the mud and went down heavily. For a moment he lay in the slime and water, with the rain beating on him, and the wind whipping about him, half stunned.
"Worse than ever!" he murmured, making a wry face. "Tve got to hop on and help Ray."
Just touching the toes of his injured foot to the ground, and hopping on his uninjured leg, our hero made his way forward to where he could hear the struggle going on between the tramp and the youth called Ray.
"Let go of me!" snarled the tramp. "I'll fix you for this!"
"You've nearly fixed me already, Jake," was the grim response. "I'm not going to let you go. Where are you, Tom?"
"Coming!" Tom hopped on, slipping and stumbling. As he neared the struggling figures he stepped on something round that rolled under his foot, and he picked it up. It was the tramp's flashlight, and an instant later Tom had focused the brilliant rays on the struggling figures. He saw that Ray had the man in a tight grip, while the ragged fellow was beating the lad in an endeavor to break the hold.
"That'll do!" cried Tom, and, thrusting the electric torch into his own pocket, he clasped the tramp's arms from behind. Then the battle was practically over, for the two lads could easily handle the man, whose breath was nearly spent from his running.
"Do you give up?" asked Tom, still holding the man's elbows.
"I s'pose I've got to," was the half-growled answer. "You've got me cornered."
"And you'll be cornered worse than this before I'm done with you!" saidTom grimly. "Are you hurt, Ray?"
"Not much. A few scratches and some blows in the face. But what's the matter with you, Tom? You're lame."
"Yes, my ankle is on the blink—football game to-day; just before I got your letter. Oh, but I'm glad I reached you in time!"
"Yes, you just caught me. I'd been on my way West to-morrow. Oh Tom,I can't tell you how sorry I am about it all!"
"Never mind. It's all right now, and all can be explained, I guess."
"Of course it can."
"Say, when you fellows get through chinnin' maybe you'll tell me what you're goin' to do with me?" snarled the tramp.
"We surely will," said Tom. "We're going to tie you up, and then send for the police."
"You are! Not if I know it!" With an angry cry the man endeavored to break from the hold of the two lads. But they were too much for the fellow, though the struggle was not an easy one.
"We'd better fasten him in some way," suggested Ray. "Rip off his coat, Tom, and tie his arms in it. Maybe we'd better call for help."
"Where could we get any?"
"At Appleby's house. I fancy the old man would be glad to meet Mr.Crouse again," and Ray Blake laughed.
"Don't take me to him!" whined the tramp, now much subdued. "Take me to jail, but not to that old skinflint."
"I'm afraid we haven't much choice," said Tom. "No more fighting now, or we won't be so gentle with you."
It was a threat the tramp knew would be carried out, and he made no further attempt to escape. The two lads took off his ragged coat, and made it fast about the fellow's arms, tying them behind him. Then, walking on either side, while Tom flashed the electric torch at intervals, they turned back toward the farmhouse, our hero limping along as best he could.
"Hello! Hello, there Appleby!" yelled Tom, when they came within hailing distance of the building. It was still raining hard. "Hello there, show a light!"
There was a pause, and then a door opened, letting out a flood of illumination that cut the blackness like a knife. A voice demanded:
"What's th' matter? Who be ye, makin' a racket this time of night?What right ye got on my land, anyhow?"
"That's all right, Mr. Appleby," put in Ray. "I guess you'll be glad to see us. We've got a man you've been looking for."
The tramp said nothing, but he did not make an effort to escape. Probably he realized that it was too late, now. His young captors advanced with him into the lighted kitchen of the farmhouse.
"Jake Crouse!" exclaimed the farmer. "Good land, where'd ye git him, boys? An' Ray Blake! Wa'al I never! Where'd ye pick him up?"
"In your lane," answered Ray. "We thought you'd be glad to see him."
"Me glad to see him?" exclaimed the puzzled farmer. "What for?"
"Because," answered Tom slowly, "he is the man who poisoned your horses, Mr. Appleby, and, unless I'm much mistaken, he also set fire to your hay ricks. I've got the evidence for the first charge, and———"
"I've got the evidence for the other," interrupted Ray. "It's all up, Jake. You'd better confess right now and save yourself heavier punishment."
"Good land!" gasped the farmer. "Jake Crouse—the feller who used t' work fer me—poisoned my horses—sot fire t' my hay? It don't seem possible!"
"I'd a done a heap more to you if I'd had the chance!" snarled the tramp. "You're the meanest man in seven counties, and you cheated me out of my money. I said I'd get even with you and I did."
"Then you admit you're Crouse?" asked Tom eagerly.
"Might as well, as long as you've got the goods on me. I'll take my medicine now, but I'll get back at you later, Jed Appleby!" and he shot a black look at the farmer.
"It will be some time before he can carry out that threat," said Tom easily. "Now, Mr. Appleby, I suppose you haven't a grudge against me any longer, as it's been proved that I had no hand in your troubles."
"No, of course not. I—I'm sorry I made a complaint against ye. But it did look mighty suspicious."
"Yes, it did," admitted Tom, "and I couldn't say anything, for certain reasons. But they no longer exist."
"I don't exactly understand it all," said the still-puzzled farmer, "but it's all right, an' I begs yer pardon, Tom Fairfield, an' here's my hand!" and he held out a big palm.
"That's all right," said Tom easily, as he shook hands. "I'll explain everything soon."
"And I'll do my share," added Ray. "I haven't acted just as I should in this matter. But I'm on a different road now."
"I hope so," put in Mrs. Appleby, who had been a silent spectator of the happenings. "I allers said you had a good streak in you somewhere, Ray Blake, and if you had a mother———"
"Please don't speak of her," the boy asked gently.
"Have you a telephone?" asked Tom, anxious to change the subject, for he saw that Ray was much affected. "If you have, we can 'phone for the authorities to call for our friend here," and he nodded at the tramp who, bound, sat in sullen silence.
"No, we don't have such luxuries," answered the farmer, "but I'll send one of my hired men into town. We can lock Jake up in the smoke house 'till the constable gets here."
This was done, Jake Crouse submitting sullenly. Then, when the hired man had driven off in the rain, the farmer and his wife insisted on providing dry garments for Ray and Tom, and in making them hot coffee.
In two hours the constable arrived, and only just in time, for the tramp had nearly forced open the smoke house door, and would soon have escaped. He was handcuffed, and driven to the town lockup.
"I'll appear agin' him to-morrow," said Mr. Appleby. "Now hadn't you boys better stay here all night? It's rainin' cats an' dogs."
"No, I must get back to the school," said Tom. "And I'd like Ray to come with me. I want him to help explain certain things to my chums. They know I'm not an incendiary, or a horse poisoner, but some others don't believe that."
"We'll soon make 'em!" exclaimed Ray.
"I'm with you Tom. I can't make up all you suffered on my account, butI will do all I can."
"Wa'al, if ye will go back I s'pose I can't stop ye," said the farmer."I'll have Hank drive ye in, though."
Mr. Appleby's nature seemed to have undergone a sudden change. He was no longer mean and inhospitable. In a short time Tom and Ray were on their way in a covered carriage to Elmwood Hall.