Tom had not thought to find anyone in the room save the left tackle, and he hardly knew how, under the circumstances, to put his question.
“Sure,” answered Bascome. “Anything about football? Because if it is——”
“It isn’t,” answered Tom, quickly.
“Oh, then, come on out. Excuse me just a moment, fellows,” he said to his guests, as he followed our hero out into the corridor. “I hope it isn’t spondulix, old man,” he went on. “I’d let you have some in a moment, but I’m dead broke, and——”
“I don’t need any money!” broke in Tom, half angrily. “Look here, Bascome, were you in our room to-day—after the football game?”
“In your room? Certainly not, either before the game or after it. What do you mean?”
“Well,” went on Tom, “there have been some queer things happening lately. Our old chair was taken—for a joke, I presume, and——”
“Do you mean to accuse me of having a hand in that?” demanded Bascome, indignantly. “If you do, Parsons——”
“Take it easy,” advised Tom, calmly. “I haven’t accused you of anything yet. I merely asked you if you had been in our room.”
“But why do you do that? What makes you think I was in there?”