“Because I found this there—after we came back from the game this afternoon,” went on the end. “It’s a letter addressed to you, and I thought maybe you had dropped it.”
Tom held out the missive, but, before taking it, Bascome, with a glance of anger at his companion, said cuttingly:
“Look here, Parsons, I don’t know what your game is, but I think you’re confoundedly insulting. Now, before I look at that letter, I want to say, in the strongest way I know how, that I was not in your room to-day, nor any other day lately. In fact, I haven’t been there since a lot of us fellows were talking over football matters with you and Phil and Sid one evening.”
“Yes, I remember that time,” spoke Tom. “Well, I believe you, of course. Here’s the letter. It’s mighty queer, though.”
Bascome gave one glance at the missive, and murmured:
“Lenton! I wonder what he’s writing about now. That fellow’s off his base, I think.”
As he read the note, a scowl came over his face, and he muttered something that Tom could not catch. However, the end did hear Bascome say:
“Insolent puppy! He’s got nerve to write to me that way! I’ll have it out with him!”
Then, with rapid motions, Bascome tore the letter to pieces, and scattered them about the corridor.
“It doesn’t throw any light on the mystery that has been bothering you fellows, about your clock and chair,” went on the tackle. “I had some dealings with Lenton, and this was about that.”