It was soon noised about the college that Farmer Appleby had made a "crack" about his hay fire, and great was the indignation of the lads.
"After what we did for him, he ought to be glad enough to keep quiet, if we burned half a dozen stacks!" exclaimed Reddy Burke, the genial Irish lad. "Sure and it's meself would tell him that same if I got a chance," Reddy always lapsed into the idioms of his forebears when he grew excited.
"Oh, it isn't worth bothering about," declared Bruce Bennington. "Appleby is naturally sore at losing some of his crops, for he's a regular miser. I know him of old. Every time something happened on his farm he always complained that we boys did it or had a hand in it."
"And did you?" asked Tom.
"Sometimes, but oftener not. Don't let it worry you. He's only looking for money. I'll wager if he was to be paid for his hay, and if he knew who set fire to it—if any one did—he'd keep quiet and compound the felony. Forget it."
It was about two weeks later, just prior to the first match football game of the season, that Bert and Jack, coming in from practice which Tom had left earlier because of a slight injury to his shoulder, found their chum busy with bottles and test tubes in their room.
"Whew! What a smell!" cried Jack, as he opened the door. "What in the world be you a doin' of, Tommy, my boy?"
"Oh, working out some physics problems. I'm a bit back in my work."
"Noble youth! I ought to be doing the same thing. My! but I'm dry. Got any ice water? What's this?" and Jack caught up a glass filled with a colorless liquid.
"Here! Drop that!" cried Tom, quickly. "That's had cyanide of potassium in. There may be some in it yet. If you want to go to an early grave, taste it."