MORE SEEKING
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.