“All right, Wallops. I’ll look out for it. Did you pay anything on it?”
“No, it was prepaid. I say, Mr. Parsons, do you think we’re going to win the championship?” and the diminutive messenger looked at the runner anxiously.
“Of course we are, Wallops. Why? You aren’t betting, I hope.”
“No, but you see—well, er—yes, I am in a way. A friend of mine bet a box of candy—I mean I bet the box of candy and——”
“And she wagered a necktie, I suppose,” interrupted Tom with a laugh. “Well, Wallops, I hope the young lady bet on us, and that you lose, though I’d buy her the candy, if I were you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Parsons, I guess I will,” answered the messenger with a cheerful grin. “She’s an awful nice girl.”
“Humph!” mused Tom, as he walked on. “Every fellow thinks that I suppose, about his own. But I wonder what that package is?”
He found it outside the door, which was locked. None of his chums was in as Tom swung the portal, and soon he was unwrapping the bundle.
“Ha! A bottle of medicine,” remarked Tom, as the last paper came off, revealing a flask of some dark fluid. “I wonder who could have sent it to me?”
He looked at the wrapper, but it bore no sender’s name, and his own address was in typewriting.