The Winning Touchdown: A Story of College Football

by Lester Chadwick

  CHAPTER XXI

  SEEKING EVIDENCE

  Phil Clinton walked over to the mantle, and, almost reverently, tookdown the fussy, ticking clock. It seemed to make more noise than usual,but perhaps this was because the room was so quiet, or perchancethey had become used to the rather gentle tick-tock of the mahoganytimepiece. The quarter-back turned the clock over and over.

  "Yes, it's ours, all right," he finally announced.

  "Did you have any doubt of it?" asked Tom.

  "Some," admitted Phil. "There have been so many queer things happening,that I don't know whether or not to believe that we are really here,that we exist, and that there is such a place as Randall College."

  "There won't be, if Langridge's father and those other lawyers havetheir way," declared Sid, solemnly.

  Phil was still closely examining the clock, turning it over and over,and listening to the tick.

  "Well, what's the matter?" asked Tom. "Do you think it's got themeasles or the pip, that you have to hark to its breathing apparatusthat way?"

  "There's something wrong with it," declared Phil, with a dubious shakeof his head. "It doesn't tick as it used to. Here, Sid, you listen toit."

  Thus appealed to, Sid put the timepiece to his ear.

  "Don't you remember," went on Phil, "how it used to sort of have adouble tick, like an automobile with carbon in the cylinders? Sometimesit would act as if it was going to stop, and you'd think it had heartfailure. Then it would get on the move again. It doesn't do that now. Itticks as regular as a chronometer."

  "You're right," agreed Sid. "Here, Tom, have a hearken."

  After a few minutes' test, Tom was also forced to conclude that therewas something strange about the clock. Yet it was undeniably theirs.

  "And it's exactly right, too," went on Phil, comparing it with his newwatch, a present from his mother. "It's right to the half minute, andthat's something that never happened before since the time when thememory of man runneth not to the contrary. Whoever had it, and broughtit back, took the trouble to set it right."

  Tom was now carefully looking the clock over. He gazed thoughtfully atthe back, where there were a number of turn screws and keys for windingand setting it, and uttered an exclamation.

  "Fellows!" he cried, "our clock has been taken apart and put togetheragain. See, the back is scratched where some one has used a knife orscrewdriver on it, and smell the oil they've put on it."

  He held it first to the nose of Sid, and then to Phil. After severaldetecting whiffs, they both gave it as their opinion that the clock hadbeen given an oil bath.

  "This gets me!" exclaimed Phil. "Why in the name of the seven sacredsomnambulistic salamanders, anyone should go to the trouble of making afalse key to our room, take our clock away, renovate it, and then bringit back I can't see for the life of me."

  "Same here," came from Sid, as he slumped down on the sofa. "But we'vegot it back, anyhow, and isn't there a proverb to the effect that youshouldn't look a beggar in the mouth?"

  "You're thinking of gift-horses," declared Tom, "but what you mean is,'take the gifts the gods provide.' Still, it is mighty queer, and I wishwe could get some clews that would help unravel the mystery--that of ourchair as well as the clock."

  Sid uncurled long enough to reach out and get a book, which he began tostudy, while Phil set himself at some of his college tasks. Only Tomremained inactive--yet not inactive, either, for he was doing some hardthinking, in which the clock, the missing chair, and the troubles ofRandall in general, formed a part. He arose and walked about the room,pausing now and then in front of the clock to listen to the insistentticking.

  "Oh, for cat's sake, sit down!" exploded Phil, at length. "I've writtenthis same sentence over six times, and I can't get it right yet, withyou tramping around like a prisoner in a cell."

  "Yes, go to bed," urged Sid.

  Tom did not answer. Instead, he stooped over and picked up an envelopefrom the floor, where it had fallen partly under and was almost hiddenby a low bookcase. He turned it over to read the address, and uttered astartled cry.

  "What's the matter?" demanded Sid, springing to an upright position withsuch suddenness, that the old sofa creaked and groaned in protest, likea ship in a storm.

  "Look!" exclaimed Tom. "This letter--I found it on the floor--it'saddressed to Bert Bascome--from someone in the college, evidently, forit hasn't been through the mail, as there's no stamp on it."

  Sid and Phil eagerly examined the missive, turning it over and over, asif something on it might escape them. It was a plain white envelope,and was sealed.

  "That throws some light on the mystery, and bears out my suspicion,"went on Tom.

  "What light?" asked Sid.

  "And what suspicion?" demanded Phil.

  "The suspicion that Langridge has had a hand in this mystery, and thatBert Bascome has been in our room since we last left it. That letterwasn't here when we went out, I'm sure of that, so Bascome must havedropped it when he brought back the clock."

  "Brought back the clock!" cried Phil. "Do you mean to say he tookit--and the chair?"

  "I don't know that I do, but either he or Langridge had a hand in it,"asserted Tom, positively. "Langridge probably put Bascome up to it, toannoy us. You know Bascome and that bully were quite thick with eachother before Langridge was forced to leave."

  "But this letter isn't in the handwriting of Langridge, Tom," objectedSid. "I know _his_ fist well enough."

  "That's right," agreed Phil. "But I can tell you who did write this."

  "Who?" demanded Tom and Sid, in a breath.

  "Henry Lenton," was the quiet reply.

  "What, the fellow you suspected of making the false key?" cried Tom, instartled tones.

  "That's the chap. He wrote this letter to Bascome; I'm sure of it."

  "Then those two are in the game against us!" came from Sid. "Oh,say, this is getting more puzzling than ever! What can we do aboutit--Langridge--Bascome--Lenton--who's guilty--who had our clock?"

  "I'm going to find out one thing!" declared Tom, with energy.

  "What's that?" asked Phil, as his chum arose and strode toward the door.

  "I'm going to give Bascome this letter, and find out what he was doingin our room."

  "You may make trouble," warned Phil.

  "I don't care if I do! I'm going to get to the bottom of this," andholding the envelope as if it might somehow get away from him, Tomstrode from the apartment, his footsteps echoing down the corridor,while back in the room his chums listened to the ticking of the clockthat formed a link in the curious mystery.