“Same here. I’m glad to have met you. Maybe we’ll have some fun on the diamond after these games.”
“Maybe,” and Tom turned aside, with the intention of joining his chums. As he did so he saw the Exter lad, who had introduced himself as Hal Durkin, link arms with another youth from his own college. Tom could not help overhearing what they said.
“Did you learn anything?” asked the lad who had joined Durkin, and who, Tom learned later, was Jack Pendleton.
“Not much. He goes by the name Shambler now, but I’m almost sure he’s the same fellow.”
“You are? Then this thing has got to be looked into. We’re not going up against any such game as that. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“I should say not!” agreed Durkin. “But we must go slow. It wouldn’t do to make a mistake.”
“I should say not. There’d be a pretty muddle if we did. But I’m sure I’m right, though I’m going to get more information before I say anything. Come on over, and we’ll talk to some of the fellows about it.”
“Now I wonder what in the world is up?” mused Tom. “They were certainly talking about Shambler, and from what they said it seems as if that wasn’t his name. I wonder if there can be anything wrong? Jove! I hope not, for the sake of Randall. And yet what could it be? Maybe he isn’t the best kind of a character, but that can’t make any difference in his standing as an athlete. If these Exter fellows are as squeamish as that, it’s time we knew it.”
Almost unconsciously Tom found himself defending the lad for whom he had felt such a dislike, not long since. Perhaps the little talk with Madge Tyler had made a change in our hero.
“Well, I won’t say anything about it,” decided the tall pitcher. “But I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”