For the Honor of Randall Part 42

The practice went on unceasingly. The weather cleared, being finer than ever, and the candidates went out on the track and field.

Meanwhile Holly and Kindlings had composed a letter to the proper authorities of the Amateur Athletic Union, asking a ruling on Frank's case. Nothing more had been heard from Shambler, excepting that he had sent for his baggage, and it was surmised that he had quietly taken himself to parts unknown.

It was Wednesday afternoon, and Tom, coming from the gymnasium, after a refreshing shower, following a hard spell of practice in all-around work, was met by Wallops.

"Oh, Mr. Parsons," said the messenger, "there was a young man looking for you, with a package a while ago. I couldn't find you, so I sent him to your room with it. I guess he left it."

"Are you sure it wasn't a telegram?" asked our hero anxiously, thinking of his father's lawsuit.

"No, it was a package. It came by express, he said."

"All right, Wallops. I'll look out for it. Did you pay anything on it?"

"No, it was prepaid. I say, Mr. Parsons, do you think we're going to win the championship?" and the diminutive messenger looked at the runner anxiously.

"Of course we are, Wallops. Why? You aren't betting, I hope."

"No, but you see--well, er--yes, I am in a way. A friend of mine bet a box of candy--I mean I bet the box of candy and----"

"And _she_ wagered a necktie, I suppose," interrupted Tom with a laugh.

"Well, Wallops, I hope the young lady bet on us, and that you lose, though I'd buy her the candy, if I were you."

"Thanks, Mr. Parsons, I guess I will," answered the messenger with a cheerful grin. "She's an awful nice girl."

"Humph!" mused Tom, as he walked on. "Every fellow thinks that I suppose, about his own. But I wonder what that package is?"

He found it outside the door, which was locked. None of his chums was in as Tom swung the portal, and soon he was unwrapping the bundle.

"Ha! A bottle of medicine," remarked Tom, as the last paper came off, revealing a flask of some dark fluid. "I wonder who could have sent it to me?"

He looked at the wrapper, but it bore no sender's name, and his own address was in typewriting.

"h.e.l.lo! What you got?" demanded Sid, as he entered at that moment, and saw Tom holding the bottle up to the light.

"Search me," was the answer. "It's a bottle of some kind of training dope I guess, to judge by the label."

Sid looked at it.

"That's good stuff," he announced. "It's a sort of iron tonic. I've used it. It's a patent medicine, but lots of fellows use it in training. Who sent it?"

"I don't know."

Sid looked at the wrapper.

"It came from Fairview," he declared. "Tom, some of the girls thought you were losing your nerve, and they sent this. Well, a dose of it won't hurt you. They meant all right, I guess. Going to take any? It's fine for the stomach."

"No, I don't feel the need of it," and Tom set the bottle of medicine on the shelf.

CHAPTER XXIX

AN ALARM IN THE NIGHT

"What are you doing, Sid?"

"Writing a letter."

"Of course. I can see that without gla.s.ses. But who to, if it's not a personal question?" persisted Tom tantalizingly, as he stretched out on the old couch, and watched his chum busy with pen and ink. Phil and Frank were making more or less successful pretenses at study.

"Well--er--it _is_ sort of personal," replied Sid, and Tom noticed that the writer got red back of the ears. That is always regarded as a sure sign.

"My! You've got it bad," persisted Tom.

"Got what bad--what do you mean?"

"As if you didn't know! You saw her Sunday, and here it is only Wednesday, and you're writing. I say, that's against the union rules you know; how about it fellows?"

"That's right," agreed Frank.

"And the punishment is that you'll have to read the letter to us," went on Tom. "Failing to do that we will read it for ourselves."

He arose suddenly, and made as if to look over Sid's shoulder.

"No, you don't!" cried the writer, dodging away from the table. "You let me alone, and I'll let you alone."

"By Jove! He's writing verse!" cried Tom. "Well, if that isn't the limit, fellows! Say, he has got 'em bad!"

"Oh, you make me tired!" snapped Sid, as he stuffed the paper, over which he had been laboring, into his pocket. "Can't a fellow write a letter? I'm going down in the reading room."

And before they could stop him he had slipped out.

"Sid certainly is going some," remarked Phil. "The germ is working.

Well, I'm going to turn in. I'm dead tired and I expect I'll sleep like a top."

"Dutch wanted us to come to his room to-night," remarked Frank. "He's got some feed."

"Not for me," spoke Tom. "I'm not going to risk anything that Dutch will set up, when the games are so near. He'd feed us on Welsh rabbit and cocoanut macaroons if he had his way. Not that he wouldn't eat 'em himself, but they don't go with training diet."

"Well, I'm out of it, so I'll take a chance," remarked Frank.

"Don't take Sid," Tom called after the big Californian. "He's on training diet, too. Dutch has the digestion of an ostrich, and it won't hurt him."

"All right," Frank retorted, and then Tom, together with Phil, prepared to turn in.

Tom was thinking of many things. Of his father's troubles, of the possible outcome of the contests, and of his own chances. For the first time since he had begun to train extra hard, because of the necessity of taking Shambler's place, Tom felt a little less "up to the mark" than usual. He was more tired than he had been in several weeks, and his stomach did not feel just right.