"Tom Fairfield, what in the name of the seven sacred scribes has happened, anyhow?"
Thus Tom's chums—George, Jack, and Bert, greeted him about an hour later when he entered his room in the borrowed garments of the farmer. Ray Blake followed him into the apartment, a trifle embarrassed. The boys had managed, through the friendly offices of Demy Miller, the studious janitor, to enter the dormitory unseen by the proctor or any of his scouts.
"Yes, I'm here," said Tom with a smile, as he limped to an easy chair.
"Ray, have a seat. Boys, allow me to introduce my cousin, Ray Blake."
"Your—your cousin!" gasped Jack.
"Yes. He's the one who had my sweater," went on Tom.
"Your sweater?" gasped George.
"Yes—that rather brilliant one that connected me with the horse-poisoning case."
"But—but," stammered Bert. "Did he—your cousin—?"
"No, he didn't use any cyanide," said Tom quickly. "Now for some explanations. But first shake hands, and then maybe we'd better stuff our keyhole so the light won't show. No use being interrupted."
"That's already been attended to," said Jack. "We always take those precautions," and in turn he and the others shook hands with Ray.