THE RAGGED MAN
"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."
"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!