There came a fiercer blast of the storm, and a harder dash of rain against the window.

The two chums decided they could do nothing.  They would have to wait until Tom returned.  And they sat in anxious silence, until that should happen.

“What lane do you think was meant in the letter?” asked Bert, when Jack had placed the missive in Tom’s desk.

“The lane leading to Appleby’s farm, maybe.”

“And if Tom goes there he may get into another row with the old farmer.”

“Not much danger to-night.  I guess Appleby will stay in where it’s dry and warm.  I wish Tom had.”

Meanwhile the subject of their remarks was tramping on through the storm.  His ankle pained him very much, and he realized that he would be better off in bed.  But something drove him forward.  He saw daylight ahead, even through the blackness of the night.

“At last!” Tom murmured, as he plunged on.  “I’ll see him, and get him to release me from my promise.  Maybe he’ll own up that he did the thing himself, and that will free me, though it will be terrible for mother.  She never dreamed that Ray would get into such trouble.

“I wonder which of my letters reached him?  And why did he have to pick out such a night to want to see me?  Well, I give it up.  I’ll have to wait until I have a talk with him.  I wonder what his plans are?”

Thus musing, and half talking to himself, Tom staggered on through the rain and darkness.  He had to be careful of his ankle, for he did not want to permanently injure himself, nor get so lame that he could not play in future football games.

“Let’s see,” said Tom, coming to a halt after an uphill struggle against the November gale.  “The lane ought to be somewhere around here.”  It was so dark that he could scarcely see a few feet ahead of him, and a lantern would have been blown out in an instant.  “I hope Appleby isn’t prowling around,” he went on.  “It would look sort of awkward if he caught me.  I wish Ray had named some other place.  And yet, it was here I saw him the other time.  Maybe it will be all right.”

Tom went on a little farther, stepping into mud puddles, and slipping off uneven stones, sending twinges of pain through his sprained ankle.

“I guess I’m there now,” he murmured as he felt a firm path under his feet.  “Now to see if Ray is here.”

Tom had advanced perhaps a hundred feet down the lane that led from the main road to the farm of Mr. Appleby when he came to an abrupt halt.

“Was that a whistle, or just the howling of the wind?” he asked himself, half aloud.  He paused to listen.

“It was a whistle,” he answered himself.  “I’ll reply.”

He shrilled out a call through the storm and darkness, in reply to the few notes he had heard.

“Are you there?” demanded a voice.

“Yes.  Is that you, Ray?” asked Tom.

“Ray?  No! who are you?” came the query.