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 Saturday,” assented 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 Saturday 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 passing 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 passing 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.”