“My ankle!” gasped Tom, as a sudden turn on it sent a twinge of pain through him.  “If it wasn’t for that I’d stand a better chance.  And yet I’m not going to give up.  I’ve got to get him, or all my work will go for nothing.”

On he ran, the rain-soaked ground giving forth scarcely a sound save when he or the man ahead of him stepped into some mud puddle, of which there were many.

Tom, however, could hear the footfalls of the tramp, who was seeking to escape, and by their nearness he judged that the fellow was not very far in advance.

“He hasn’t much the start of me,” mused Tom.  “But if he gets out on the main road he can easily give me the slip.  I’ve got to corner him in this lane.”

The lane was a long one, bordered on either side by big fields, some of which were pastures, where the patient cattle stood in the storm, and others whence fall crops had been gathered by the farmer.  Tom glanced ahead, and from side to side, to see if the tramp had leaped a fence and was seeking to get away across some pasture.  But he saw nothing, and was aware of a dim moving spot just ahead of him.  It was as if the spot was a little lighter in darkness than the surrounding night.

“He’s in the lane yet, I think,” said Tom, to himself, trying to run so as to bring as little weight as possible on his injured ankle.  “At least I hope he is.  And the lane doesn’t end yet for some distance.”

A moment later he was given evidence that the fellow was still running straight ahead.  There came a muttered exclamation, and the sound of splashing water.  Then there shone a brilliant patch of light for an instant.  The tramp had blundered into some puddle, and had flashed his electric torch to get his bearings.  This Tom saw, and he also saw that the man had increased the distance between them.

“He’s going to get away from me if I can’t do a little better sprinting work,” murmured Tom grimly.  “If I was making a touchdown I’d have to do better than this.  I’ll just pretend that I am out for a touchdown.”

Clenching his teeth to keep back exclamations of pain, that, somehow or other, would force themselves out, as his ankle twinged him, Tom swept on.  He fancied he was gaining a bit, for he could hear the labored breathing of the man ahead of him.

“Wind’s giving out!” thought Tom, and he was glad that he was well trained.  Undoubtedly the life of dissipation the tramp had led would tell on him.  He could not keep up the race long.  And yet the lane must soon end.

“I’ve got to get him!  I’ve got to get him!” said Tom to himself, over and over again, and he lowered his head and raced on in the storm and darkness.

He came to the same puddle where the tramp had flashed his light, and the muddy water splashed high.  It was slippery, too, and, in an endeavor to maintain his balance, Tom further wrenched his ankle.

“I’ll be laid up for fair!” he groaned.  “No more football for me this season.  Well, I can’t help it.  This is more important.  Oh, if I can only land him in jail where he belongs!”