Tom Fairfield's Pluck and Luck Part 28

"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 Sat.u.r.day,"

a.s.sented 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sing 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 s.h.i.+pwreck, 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.

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 Sat.u.r.day 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.