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.



CHAPTER XXI

IN THE STORM

"'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.



CHAPTER XXII

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!



CHAPTER XXIII

THE PURSUIT

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!"



CHAPTER XXIV

CORNERED

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!" said Tom 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, but I 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.



CHAPTER XXV

EXPLANATIONS

"Look who's here!"

"Back again!"

"Tom Fairfield, what in the name of the seven sacred scribes has happened, anyhow?"

Thus Tom's chums—George, Jack, and Bert, greeted him about an hour later when he entered his room in the borrowed garments of the farmer. Ray Blake followed him into the apartment, a trifle embarrassed. The boys had managed, through the friendly offices of Demy Miller, the studious janitor, to enter the dormitory unseen by the proctor or any of his scouts.

"Yes, I'm here," said Tom with a smile, as he limped to an easy chair. "Ray, have a seat. Boys, allow me to introduce my cousin, Ray Blake."

"Your—your cousin!" gasped Jack.

"Yes. He's the one who had my sweater," went on Tom.

"Your sweater?" gasped George.

"Yes—that rather brilliant one that connected me with the horse-poisoning case."

"But—but," stammered Bert. "Did he—your cousin—?"

"No, he didn't use any cyanide," said Tom quickly. "Now for some explanations. But first shake hands, and then maybe we'd better stuff our keyhole so the light won't show. No use being interrupted."

"That's already been attended to," said Jack. "We always take those precautions," and in turn he and the others shook hands with Ray.

"To begin at the beginning," said Tom, "this is my cousin—a son of my mother's sister. I haven't seen him in some years, for he went West, where his parents died. How he managed to come to work as a hired man for Appleby I don't know, but he did——"

"It was just chance," cut in Ray. "Suppose you let me explain, Tom."

"All right, go ahead. I'm going to rub some liniment on my ankle. It's got to be treated, if I'm to play football again."

"I might as well own up to it first as last," went on Ray, "that I haven't been altogether what I should be. When my mother died—I—I sort of went to the bad." He choked up for a moment and then resumed.

"I got in with a lot of tough characters in the West and I lived a fast life. Then I drifted East, lost what money I had and went to work for Mr. Appleby. I didn't know Tom was going to school here or I wouldn't have run the chance of disgracing him."

"If you had only let me know earlier that you were here," said Tom, "everything might have been all right."

"Well, I didn't," said Ray, with a smile at his cousin. "Things went from bad to worse. Appleby wasn't the best man in the world to work for. Then Jake Crouse happened along. I had known him out West. He came of a good family, but he went to the bad and became a common tramp, though he had a good education. Crouse isn't his right name, I guess.

"Appleby treated us very mean—he does that way to all his hired men, I guess, and he used to fine us if we accidentally broke any tools, or made mistakes. In fact about all our money was eaten up in fines, so we had very little coming to us.

"Finally Jake Crouse got mad when he was heavily fined, and he said he was going to get even. He wanted me to go in with him, but I wouldn't, and I decided to skip out, and look for another place. I had no money, and then, accidentally, I learned that Tom was a student at Elmwood Hall. I heard Appleby mention his name as having gotten ten dollars from him for about a dollar's worth of trampled-down corn. Then I decided to appeal to Tom to help me get away.

"I sent him a note, and he came to see me. It was in a pool room in town—a place where I used to go for amusement, but I've dropped all that sort of thing now. There Tom gave me money enough to straighten up and begin life over again."

"Say!" interrupted Jack, "was that where you got so all smelled up with smoke, Tom?"

"I guess it was. I know everybody in the place seemed to be smoking," answered our hero.

"That was the night Jake Crouse set fire to the hay stacks," went on Ray Blake. "He fixed it so suspicion wouldn't fall on him, as he was away from the farm at the time. He used a sort of chemical fuse that would cause the fire several hours after it was set.

"After I met Tom, and got the money, and told him about the prospective hay fire," said Ray, "I sneaked back to the farm to get what few clothes I owned. Jake Crouse was waiting for me, and when he found out I was going to run away, and that I had some money, he threatened to implicate me in the burning of the hay. He had me in his power and I didn't dare—or at least I thought I didn't dare—refuse him. So I stayed on, and he got most of my money over cards. He wasn't suspected of the fire, and I never knew Tom was, or I'd have made a clean breast of everything.

"Well, things went from bad to badness. Appleby got worse toward us instead of better, and Crouse said he'd teach him a lesson. I suspected he would do something desperate so I made up my mind to get away. I laid my plans carefully, and, ashamed as I was, I decided to ask Tom for more money.

"I appealed to him, and he answered. He gave me all he could spare, and more too, I guess and I promised to reform. I made him promise he would never say anything about me, and he didn't. As much on his mother's account as mine, I guess, for my mother and his were sisters, and I knew my aunt would be broken-hearted if she knew how much I'd gone to the bad.

"Well, to make a long story short Tom fixed me up—he even gave me his sweater when I sneaked up and called on him in this dormitory, for I was cold and hadn't many clothes—and I lit out. I guess I must have made some wild threats against Appleby before I left, for he had treated me mean."

"You did make all sorts of wild declarations," put in Tom, "and it was that which made me fear you had poisoned the horses when it was known that they had been given cyanide."

"But I didn't," said Ray. "I ran off that night, and later, as I passed by the barn, carrying Tom's sweater, I saw Jake Crouse going in with a package and a bottle. I got scared and ran as fast as I could, fearing he would see me and force me to have a hand in the crime. But I got away, though I dropped Tom's sweater, and didn't dare go back for it.

"I went to New York, and I've been there ever since, until recently. I stayed with a man I had known in the West, but I never knew Tom was in such trouble on my account. What happened here, after I left, I don't know, except as Tom has told me. But the other day I got a letter from him, asking me to release him from his promise to keep silent about my presence here, and about what a life I had led, and I came on. I couldn't get here until to-night and I sent word that I'd meet him near the Appleby house and explain everything.

"In his letter Tom told me about how he was suspected of the poisoning, and how he wanted to clear his name. The reason I appointed the lane near the farm house was because I intended to go with him to Mr. Appleby and explain everything. I never thought it would storm so, but it was too late to get word to Tom, so I kept the appointment."

"And so did I," added Tom. "How Jake Crouse got there is a mystery."

"Not much of one, I guess," said Ray. "I fancy he was mad because he didn't kill all the horses and he was going to try it again. Then too, foolishly, I wrote him a final letter, saying I was going to see you and I guess he went there to meet me."

"At any rate he was there," said Tom, "and we both had a run-in with him. He's now safely in jail, having confessed to both crimes. So my name is cleared."

"Yes, by the plucky way you kept after the clews," said Jack.

"And the luck he had of running into Jake," added Bert.

"No, Jake ran into me," explained Ray, with a laugh. "Well, I've released Tom from his promise of silence. Perhaps it was foolish to bind him to it, for I should have been willing to take my medicine. But, for a time, I could not bear the thought of his mother knowing how low I'd fallen—I didn't want anyone to know how nearly I'd disgraced Tom's family."

"That's why I couldn't say anything about to whom I gave my sweater," explained Tom. "And, for a time, I feared Ray was guilty of poisoning the horses. His threats, and the fact that he had some time before experimented with chemicals, with me, made me suspicious. So I had a double motive in keeping silent.

"At last I could stand it no longer, and I began to try and trace my cousin. I had accidentally found the clew of the bottle, and I knew that someone giving the name of Crouse had purchased the poison. But even then I was afraid Ray had given the tramp's name to shield himself. Though when the drug clerk said a man with a scar had bought the cyanide I had my doubts. Still I was not sure but what Ray had been hurt in a fight."

"I was a pretty wild character," admitted Tom's cousin, "but I'm done with that sort of life now."

"So I wrote several letters," went on Tom, "asking my cousin to come and explain things. It was some time before one reached him, as I sent to his last known address out West."

"But I finally got one," put in Ray, "and then I came on, as soon as I could. It's all explained now, and Tom's name is cleared."

"How do you suppose Sam Heller saw you—or thought he saw you—with your gay sweater on—at the barn?" asked Jack.

"Give it up," said Tom. "Maybe we'll find out that too."

They did—the next morning, when Tom and his cousin, in an interview with Doctor Meredith, told the whole story. But it had leaked out before that, and when Sam Heller was sent for he was not to be found. He had left Elmwood Hall in a hurry.

In order to clear himself of any part in the unjust accusation against Tom, Nick Johnson made a clean breast of the whole affair. To him Sam had confided a plan of throwing suspicion, of some mean act against Mr. Appleby, on Tom. Sam's plan was to go to the barns, and damage some farm machinery, at the same time leaving behind some object with Tom's name on it to implicate him. Nick would have nothing to do with this, and Sam went off by himself.

That was the night the horses were poisoned, and Sam, seeing Crouse and Ray about the barns, became frightened and sneaked off without playing his mean trick. It was Ray he had seen wearing the sweater, leaving the dormitory after Ray had borrowed it, and Sam thought it was Tom, for the cousins were much alike. And it was Ray whom Mr. Appleby had seen, though the empty package of poison was dropped by Crouse, and not by Ray, so in that the farmer was mistaken. And Sam testified against Tom, at the time believing him guilty.

Later, though, in one of the resorts of Elmwood, Sam overheard Crouse boasting to some boon companions of what he had done, but, instead of telling what he knew, and clearing our hero, Sam kept silent, letting the blame rest on Tom. And it was Sam's school pin the farmer found near the hay.

And it was also Sam and Nick who had bribed the farm boy to send Tom and his chums on the wrong road, thus leading them into the cornfield and causing the quarrel with Mr. Appleby.

"Well, all's well that ends well," said Tom's cousin a few days later, when he made ready to go back to the West, where he promised to begin a new life. "I can't tell you how sorry I am Tom, for the trouble I made you."

"Never mind," answered our hero. "It's all right."

"Tom's pluck and luck won for him," said Jack, and Tom was the hero of the school, for Doctor Meredith publicly commended the youth for his action, and Mr. Appleby was fair enough to beg Tom's pardon before the whole school.

"But we've got to have a new quarterback," said the perplexed football captain as the time approached for the last big game—that for the championship.

"Yes," admitted the coach. "Better a new one than that sneak Sam Heller. I'm glad he's gone. Is Tom's ankle fit for him to play?"

"He says he'll play, anyhow!"

"Good for him. Well, I guess we can make a shift."

The football game was one long to be remembered. It was played on a cold, crisp day, and a record-breaking crowd was in attendance. For the first three quarters neither side scored. There were brilliant runs, sensational kicks and tackles, brilliant passing, and good plays generally, but the teams seemed too evenly matched.

Then came the last quarter. Foot by foot the ball had been worked to within striking distance of the rival's goal.

"Now, boys, a touchdown!" cried the captain.

Smith, the new quarterback, gave the signal for Tom to take the pigskin through center, and Tom, with lowered head and fiercely beating heart, leaped forward. There was a crash as the two lines of players met, and then, struggling forward, tearing himself loose from restraining hands—pushed, shoved and all but torn apart, Tom forced his way onward.

His vision became black! His breath was all but gone, and then, with a last mighty heave, he shoved the ball over the last line.

"Touchdown! Touchdown!"

"Tom Fairfield's touchdown!"

"Elmwood Hall forever!"

"Three cheers!"

"Three cheers for Tom Fairfield!"

The players and spectators went wild, and the game came to an end a few minutes later, with Tom's team the champions.

"Well, old man, we did 'em," said Jack some hours later, when the chums, and as many of their friends as possibly could crowd into the room of our heroes, had gathered there. "We did 'em."

"Good and proper," added Bert.

"How's the ankle, Tom?" asked the captain anxiously. "We don't want to permanently cripple you, for there'll be more games next year."

"Oh, I guess I'll be all right by then," said Tom, with a smile. "Jack, pass those sandwiches," for an impromptu banquet was under way.

"Yes, and don't hold that mustard for a loss," added George.

"Pass those pickles up this way for a touchdown," begged Reddy Burke.

"Well, Tom," asked Bruce Bennington in a low voice, "are you glad or sorry you didn't insist on having a row with Sam, right off the bat?"

"Glad," answered Tom. "It came out all right anyhow."

"Sure it did. He's gone, and you're here," said Bruce.

"A song, boys! A song!" called Jack Fitch, and a moment later, in spite of the danger of a visit from the proctor, there swelled out the strains of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!"

But the proctor did not come. As he heard the forbidden sounds of gaiety he smiled grimly.

"It Isn't every day that Elmwood Hall wins a championship," he remarked to Doctor Meredith.

"No, indeed," agreed the head master. "And so young Fairfield made the winning touchdown?"

"Yes. As plucky a lad as we have in the school. He played the game with an injured ankle."

"Oh, it isn't alone physical pluck that Fairfield has," remarked the head of the school thoughtfully, as he remembered what Tom had endured.

Those had been strenuous times for Tom, but other happenings were still in store for him, and what some of them were will be related in another volume, to be called "Tom Fairfield's Hunting Trip; Or, Lost in the Wilderness," in which we shall see how Tom's pluck was put to the supreme test.

"All ready for the grand march!" cried one of the boys, and soon a big line was formed, and the boys began to march around the school buildings. And here we will say good-bye to Tom Fairfield.



THE END