All that he knew was that the bottle had been given him at the Fairview office to take to Randall, and at the office a clerk had only a dim recollection of the person who brought it in to be dispatched.
Shambler was described to him, and he said that youth might have been the one. But it was flimsy evidence, and though Phil and his chums were well enough satisfied in their own minds that Shambler was the guilty one, there was no way of proving it.
So the matter was dropped, as much “for the honor of Randall,” as for any other reason. For, as Phil said:
“Fellows, we don’t want it to get out that any lad who once attended here could be guilty of such a thing.”
And so the affair rested.
It was two days before Tom was on his feet again, and though he had a wretched time he was, in a measure, even better off than before he took the unfortunate dose. For the rest had done him good, and when he got back to practice, rather pale and uncertain, he soon picked up his speed.
Sid, meanwhile, had been doing hard work, and the other candidates were up to the difficult standard set by Holly and Kindlings.
It was two days before the postponed games. All the difficulties caused by the change of date had been overcome, and there was every prospect of a successful meet.
“Now, Tom, do you feel like letting yourself go?” asked Holly, as the pitcher came out for a trial on the track.