Tom Fairfield hurried on back toward Elmwood Hall.  His brain was busy with many thoughts.  At first he felt a spirit of elation.

“A scar—­a big scar,” he murmured.  “Then it couldn’t have been him, unless he got hurt after I saw him.  And yet if he had, it was too short a time for a scar to form.  The clerk would have said a wound, and not a scar.  And yet—­oh, I’m not sure after all!  It may have been him, and he may have gotten into a fight after he left me.  He was desperate.  And until I am sure it wasn’t him I can’t say anything, for mother’s sake, as well as his.  I can’t bring disgrace on her, even though I suffer myself.  Oh, hang it all!  If I hadn’t had that quarrel with Appleby they never would have suspected me, and I wouldn’t have had all this trouble.”

Poor Tom, hardly knowing what to do, or which way to turn, flung himself down on the couch in his room, and thought deeply.  Neither Jack nor Bert was in and the apartment was quiet.

“If I could only reach him,” mused Tom, “I could get him to explain, or even come here and clear me.  And yet I can’t even say I met him, and helped him, on account of my promise, and what saying such a thing would mean.  But he might release me from my promise, and even help me to prove my innocence.”

Then Tom thought of other things—­of how much easier it would be to drop out of school entirely and let matters take their course.

“But I won’t!” he exclaimed, sitting up and clenching his fists.  “I’m in this fight to stay.  I’m going to clear my name and do it in the right way.  To leave now would be to do just what Sam Heller most wants, and I won’t give him that satisfaction.  I’ll stick!”

Jack and Bert came bursting in, having heard from George that Tom was back.

“Any luck?” asked Jack, for they knew of Tom’s trip to the drug store.

“Well, in a way, yes, and yet not.  I found out who bought the poison.”

“Was it Sam Heller?” asked Bert eagerly.

“No,” answered Tom.  “Haven’t I told you that I’m sure he hadn’t any hand in it?”

“You wait and see,” advised Jack.  “I think you’re away off, Tom.  But say, you want to come out to football practice this afternoon.  Strict orders for everyone to be on the job.”

“Oh, what’s the use?”

“Lots!  What’s getting into you lately?” asked Bert.

“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.”