"Say, this is sure tough!" complained Jack to Bert, that night in their room. "Tom off the team!"
"And with this cloud hanging over him," added his chum. "Where is Tom now, anyhow?"
"Give it up. He said he was going for a walk."
"He feels bad I guess. I don't blame him. Say, what do you think of this thing, anyhow, Jack?"
"I don't know, Bert, it—well, hang it all, it looks mighty queer. I might as well say it as think it."
"What! You don't believe Tom guilty; do you?"
"Of course not, and yet he's so plagued stiff he won't say anything, or let us help him. Who do you suppose he's shielding, anyhow?"
"Give it up. If he would only tell a fellow," and Bert stalked about the room in something of a rage against his absent chum.
"While I don't for a second believe Tom had anything to do with this business," went on Jack, "it's up to us, as his friends, to look the thing squarely in the face."
"Yes, I suppose so. But what do you mean?"