“Yes, clews as to who poisoned these horses and set the hay on fire.  You see it’s not enough to say that I didn’t do it.  I’ve got to find the person who did.”

“Well, I wish you luck,” murmured Jack.

“And if there’s anything we can do, don’t hesitate to let us know,” added Bert, at which his chum nodded.

“Don’t let this get on your nerves so you can’t play football Saturday,” suggested Jack.

“I guess it won’t,” laughed Tom.

But whether it was the suspicion hanging over him, or because he was nervous, certainly he did not play well in that first gridiron match of the season.  Nor was he the only one of the eleven who did poorly.

From the very first it was seen that Elmwood Hall had met her match.  Her opponents scored a touchdown in the first five minutes of play, and this rather took the heart out of Tom and his chums.

True they braced, and prevented any more scoring for the next two periods.  Then came a chance fer them to rush the ball over the line.  Tom worked to his limit and managed to gain much ground.  Then came a fatal fumble, just when he might have been shoved over for the tieing of the score.

In his own heart Tom felt that Sam had deliberately passed the ball to him short.  Tom had to lean forward to grab it, his foot slipped, and the coveted pigskin was grabbed by an opposing player.  It was run out of danger before the man was downed, and then it was too late to make good the loss.  Tom groaned in anguish, and for one wild moment he felt like accusing Sam openly.

“No, that would never do,” he reasoned.  “They would all say I did it for spite, and because he gave that information against me.  I’ve got to grin and bear it.”

Nor was Tom much surprised when he was shifted to the scrub at the next practice.

“I hate to do it, old man,” said the coach, “but you seem to have gone a bit stale.  You aren’t overtrained; are you?”

“I don’t think so,” said Tom bitterly.

“Well, maybe a change will do you good.  I’ll give you a game later on, if you pick up.”

And, deeply regretting what he felt he had to do, the coach went off to talk to the captain about some other changes.

“Say, this is sure tough!” complained Jack to Bert, that night in their room.  “Tom off the team!”

“And with this cloud hanging over him,” added his chum.  “Where is Tom now, anyhow?”

“Give it up.  He said he was going for a walk.”

“He feels bad I guess.  I don’t blame him.  Say, what do you think of this thing, anyhow, Jack?”

“I don’t know, Bert, it—­well, hang it all, it looks mighty queer.  I might as well say it as think it.”

“What!  You don’t believe Tom guilty; do you?”

“Of course not, and yet he’s so plagued stiff he won’t say anything, or let us help him.  Who do you suppose he’s shielding, anyhow?”