"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.