THE PLOT
George Abbot was not exactly correct in saying that the runaway horse
was _coming_ back. The animal was being brought back, and he seemed
quiet and docile enough. Perhaps he had lost his fright in the run he
had taken after being freed from the cutter.
“Who’s leading the horse?” asked Bert Wilson, while Tom turned to look,
after having faced the angry professor until the latter turned aside
his head. Well he knew that Tom spoke the truth. A shady transaction,
while a member of the Elmwood faculty, had placed Professor Skeel under
the ban of the law, and he realized that he could not appeal to it
without bringing himself into its clutches.
“That’s Morse Denton with the animal,” said Jack.
“Morse must have caught him before he went very far, or he wouldn’t be
back so soon,” spoke Bert, waving his hand toward the former Freshman
football captain.
“Does that horse belong there?” Morse called across the ice.
“Yes, bring him over here,” said Tom. “Perhaps we can patch up the
shafts and send you on your way again, Professor Skeel,” Tom went
on, for he did not hold enmity, and he was willing to let bygones be
bygones, if the professor did not push matters too far.
“Um!” was all the answer the former teacher vouchsafed. He was arranging
his garments, which had been rather twisted, to say the least, by his
sudden exit from the cutter.
“What happened?” asked Morse, when he led the horse up to the little
group standing partly on the ice of the lake and partly on the shore,
for the accident had happened close to the edge.
“It was a big snowball,” volunteered George. “We rolled it down the
hill, and Professor Skeel ran into it.”
“Be correct, young man. Be correct!” growled the former instructor.
“The snowball ran into me, but I’ll have satisfaction. I’ll----”
He caught Tom’s eye on him, and fairly quailed.
“Why, it’s Professor Skeel!” cried Morse. “Where did you----”
But Tom gave Morse a quick and secret sign to cease questioning, and
the newcomer, still holding the captured horse, acquiesced.
“Is the animal hurt?” demanded the former teacher.
“Doesn’t seem to be,” Morse replied. “I saw him coming at a slow canter
across the ice, and I had no trouble in stopping him. I guessed it was
a runaway and I started him back in just the opposite direction to that
he was going. Then I saw you fellows,” he added to his chums.
“I have told Professor Skeel how sorry I am that the accident occurred,”
went on Tom, “and I have assured him that we will do all that we can
to repair the damage.” He was speaking slowly and with reserve, and
choosing his words carefully.
“Repair the damage!” snapped the man.
“The shafts are all that seem to be broken,” proceeded Tom. “I know a
farmer near here, and I’m sure he will lend you another pair of shafts
for your cutter. The harness is not damaged, the cutter itself is all
right, and the horse is not hurt. There is no reason why you should not
continue your journey, Professor Skeel.”
“Well, do something then, don’t stand there talking about it!” burst
out the irritated man.
Tom did not answer, and his chums rather marveled, for Tom was not the
youth to take abuse quietly. But Tom realized that, through no fault of
his own, Professor Skeel had been put to serious inconvenience, and it
was no more than just that the lads should make good the damage they
had unwittingly done.
“Let’s set up the cutter, fellows,” proposed Tom, after a pause, “and
then we’ll see about getting another pair of shafts. We can’t use
these, that’s certain.” They were splintered beyond repair.
The boys of Elmwood Hall were used to doing things quickly, especially
under Tom’s leadership. In a trice the cutter was righted, and the
robes and the scattered possessions of Professor Skeel were picked up
and put into it. Then while Morse, George and Bert remained to adjust
the harness on the now quieted horse, Tom and Jack went to a farmhouse
near the lake to borrow a spare pair of shafts.
Tom knew the farmer, of whom he had often hired a team in the summer,
and the man readily agreed not only to loan the shafts, but to adjust
them to the cutter.
He made a quick and neat job of it, and soon the horse was once more
hitched to the righted vehicle.
“There you are, Professor Skeel,” said Tom. “Not quite as good as
before, but almost. You can keep on, and once more I wish to tell you
how sorry I am that it happened.”
“Um!” sneered Mr. Skeel.
“You may not believe it,” Tom went on. “We did not see you coming
until we had started the ball down hill, and then it was too late to
stop it. We never thought anyone would cross the lake on the ice at
this point, as no one ever does so.”
“I had a right to, didn’t I?” demanded the irate professor.
“A right, certainly,” agreed Tom. “But it is unusual. Teams go down on
the lake about a mile farther on, and you would have been perfectly
safe there.”
“Humph! I guess I can cross this lake where I please! And the next time
you roll a snowball on me, I’ll----”
“I told you,” said Tom, and his voice was cuttingly cool, “that we did
not roll the ball on you. It was unintentional, but if you persist
in thinking we did it purposely, we can’t help that. Now, is there
anything more we can do for you?” and he looked about the snow to make
sure all the contents of the cutter had been picked up and returned to
it.
The professor did not answer, but busied himself getting into the
vehicle, and taking the reins from Morse Denton.
“You can send them spare shafts back any time,” said the farmer who had
kindly loaned them.
“We’ll pay for ’em if he doesn’t,” said Jack in a low voice, anxious
to preserve peace. “It’s getting off cheap as it is,” he added.
“That’s right,” agreed Bert. “I thought he’d raise no end of a row.”
“So he would have--only for Tom. Tom closed him up in great shape,
didn’t he?”
“He sure did.”
Without a word of thanks, Professor Skeel drove off over the ice. He
never looked back, but the boys could hear him muttering angrily to
himself, probably giving vent to threats he dared not utter aloud.
“I wonder what he is doing in this neighborhood?” ventured Bert.
“It’s certainly a puzzle,” admitted Tom Fairfield. “He’s up to no good,
I’ll wager.”
“That’s right,” agreed Jack. “Well, I’m glad he’s gone, anyhow. That
sure was some upset!”
“Say, did you notice his ear?” asked George. “It wasn’t that way when
he was teaching school here. Looks as if a knife had cut him.”
“Was his ear like that when he was shipwrecked with you, Tom?” asked
Bert.
“No. That’s a new injury,” was the answer. “Rather a queer one, too. He
might have been in a fight.”
The lads remained standing together, for a little while, gazing at the
now fast-disappearing cutter and its surly occupant.
“Well, let’s get back to school,” proposed Jack. “It will soon be
grub-time.”
“And Tom can tell us more about that hunting trip,” suggested Bert.
“All right,” agreed our hero, but as he walked along he was puzzling
his brain, trying to think what Professor Skeel’s object was in coming
back to Elmwood Hall.
Perhaps if Tom could have seen Mr. Skeel a little later, as the cutter
drew up at a road-house some miles away--a road-house that did not have
a very enviable reputation in the neighborhood--Tom would have wondered
still more over his former teacher’s return.
For, as the cutter drew up in the drive, there peered from a window two
men, one with a more evil-looking face than the other, which was his
only claim to distinction.
“There he comes,” murmured the man with the less-evil countenance.
“Yes, but he’s late,” agreed the other. “Wonder what kept him?”
“He looks mad--too,” commented his companion.
A few moments later Professor Skeel entered the rear room of the
road-house. The two men arose from the table at which they had been
sitting.
“Well, you kept your word, I see,” muttered Skeel to the man with the
evil face. “You’re here, Whalen. And you too, Murker.”
“Yes. We’re here, but you didn’t say what you wanted of us,” spoke the
one addressed as Whalen.
“You’ll know soon enough,” was the rejoinder. “We sha’n’t want
anything--at least not for a while,” Mr. Skeel went on to the landlord,
who had followed him into the room. “You can leave us alone. We’ll
ring when we want you. And close the door when you go out,” he added,
significantly.
The landlord grunted.
“Well, now, what’s the game?” asked Whalen, when Mr. Skeel had seated
himself at the table.
“Revenge! That’s the game!” was the fierce answer, and a fist was
banged down on the table. “I want revenge, and I’m going to have it!”
“Who’s the party?” demanded Murker.
“Someone you don’t know, but whom you may soon. Tom Fairfield! I owe
him a long score, but I’m going to begin to pay it now. I want you to
help me, Whalen.”
“Oh, I’ll help you quick enough,” was the ready answer.
“He was instrumental in having you discharged from Elmwood Hall, wasn’t
he?” went on the former instructor.
“That’s what he was.”
“Something about beating one of the smaller boys, was it not?” and
Skeel smiled in a suggestive way, as though he rather relished, than
otherwise, the plight of Whalen.
“Naw, I only gave the kid a few taps ’cause he threw a snowball at me,”
the discharged employee went on, “but that whelp, Fairfield, saw me,
and complained to Doc. Meredith. Then I was fired.”
“And you’d like a chance to get even, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s what I would!” was the harsh answer.
“Well, I want to square accounts with him also, and, at the same time,
make a little money out of it. I thought you and Murker could help me,
and that’s why I asked you to meet me here. I’m a bit late, and that’s
some more of Fairfield’s doings. Now to business. This is the game!”
And the three plotters drew their chairs closer together and began to
talk in low, mumbling voices.