d 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.

CHAPTER XXI

IN THE STORM

"'Rah! 'Rah! 'Rah! Elmwood!"

"Three cheers for Holwell!"

"Now, boys, all together, give 'em the 'Chase Down