Tom Fairfield's Pluck and Luck Part 32

Tom could hear the surprised gasp from the tramp, he could hear his teeth chatter, not with cold, but from fright, and a moment later, with a half audible cry, the man turned and fled away in the storm and darkness.

"No, you don't!" cried Tom, and with, a spring he sought to grab the ragged fellow. But the lad was just the fraction of a second too late, and though he did manage to grasp a portion of the tramp's coat, the ragged and rotten cloth parted in his hand.

"I'll get you yet!" exclaimed Tom fiercely, as he took up the pursuit in the darkness. He had been expecting this, and yet it had come so suddenly that he was not quite prepared for it. He had hoped to get near enough to the tramp, undetected, to grab him before asking that question which so startled the fellow. Now the man, on whom so much depended in the clearing of Tom's name, was sprinting down the farm lane.

"My ankle!" gasped Tom, as a sudden turn on it sent a twinge of pain through him. "If it wasn't for that I'd stand a better chance. And yet I'm not going to give up. I've got to get him, or all my work will go for nothing."

On he ran, the rain-soaked ground giving forth scarcely a sound save when he or the man ahead of him stepped into some mud puddle, of which there were many.

Tom, however, could hear the footfalls of the tramp, who was seeking to escape, and by their nearness he judged that the fellow was not very far in advance.

"He hasn't much the start of me," mused Tom. "But if he gets out on the main road he can easily give me the slip. I've got to corner him in this lane."

The lane was a long one, bordered on either side by big fields, some of which were pastures, where the patient cattle stood in the storm, and others whence fall crops had been gathered by the farmer. Tom glanced ahead, and from side to side, to see if the tramp had leaped a fence and was seeking to get away across some pasture. But he saw nothing, and was aware of a dim moving spot just ahead of him. It was as if the spot was a little lighter in darkness than the surrounding night.

"He's in the lane yet, I think," said Tom, to himself, trying to run so as to bring as little weight as possible on his injured ankle. "At least I hope he is. And the lane doesn't end yet for some distance."

A moment later he was given evidence that the fellow was still running straight ahead. There came a muttered exclamation, and the sound of splas.h.i.+ng water. Then there shone a brilliant patch of light for an instant. The tramp had blundered into some puddle, and had flashed his electric torch to get his bearings. This Tom saw, and he also saw that the man had increased the distance between them.

"He's going to get away from me if I can't do a little better sprinting work," murmured Tom grimly. "If I was making a touchdown I'd have to do better than this. I'll just pretend that I am out for a touchdown."

Clenching his teeth to keep back exclamations of pain, that, somehow or other, would force themselves out, as his ankle twinged him, Tom swept on. He fancied he was gaining a bit, for he could hear the labored breathing of the man ahead of him.

"Wind's giving out!" thought Tom, and he was glad that he was well trained. Undoubtedly the life of dissipation the tramp had led would tell on him. He could not keep up the race long. And yet the lane must soon end.

"I've got to get him! I've got to get him!" said Tom to himself, over and over again, and he lowered his head and raced on in the storm and darkness.

He came to the same puddle where the tramp had flashed his light, and the muddy water splashed high. It was slippery, too, and, in an endeavor to maintain his balance, Tom further wrenched his ankle.

"I'll be laid up for fair!" he groaned. "No more football for me this season. Well, I can't help it. This is more important. Oh, if I can only land him in jail where he belongs!"

Recovering himself, he dashed on. He could still hear the lumbering footsteps of the tramp. And then suddenly, out of the blackness ahead of Tom there came a strange sound. It was like a grunt. Then the echo of voices.

"Look out where you're going!" someone exclaimed.

"Get out of my way!" snarled another, and Tom recognized the tramp's tones.

"Ray! Ray Blake!" cried Tom, as he again heard the first voice. "Hold that man! Don't let him get away. That's Jake Crouse!"

CHAPTER XXIV

CORNERED

Tom Fairfield heard the sound of a struggle ahead of him in the blackness. He heard the panting of breaths, heavily drawn, and the impact of blows.

"I'm coming, Ray! I'm coming. Hold him!" yelled Tom. "Don't let him get away!"

"I--I won't, Tom!" was the answer. "But--hurry up!"

Tom sprang forward, but it was almost his undoing, for he slipped in the mud and went down heavily. For a moment he lay in the slime and water, with the rain beating on him, and the wind whipping about him, half stunned.

"Worse than ever!" he murmured, making a wry face. "Tve got to hop on and help Ray."

Just touching the toes of his injured foot to the ground, and hopping on his uninjured leg, our hero made his way forward to where he could hear the struggle going on between the tramp and the youth called Ray.

"Let go of me!" snarled the tramp. "I'll fix you for this!"

"You've nearly fixed me already, Jake," was the grim response. "I'm not going to let you go. Where are you, Tom?"

"Coming!" Tom hopped on, slipping and stumbling. As he neared the struggling figures he stepped on something round that rolled under his foot, and he picked it up. It was the tramp's flashlight, and an instant later Tom had focused the brilliant rays on the struggling figures. He saw that Ray had the man in a tight grip, while the ragged fellow was beating the lad in an endeavor to break the hold.

"That'll do!" cried Tom, and, thrusting the electric torch into his own pocket, he clasped the tramp's arms from behind. Then the battle was practically over, for the two lads could easily handle the man, whose breath was nearly spent from his running.

"Do you give up?" asked Tom, still holding the man's elbows.

"I s'pose I've got to," was the half-growled answer. "You've got me cornered."

"And you'll be cornered worse than this before I'm done with you!" said Tom grimly. "Are you hurt, Ray?"

"Not much. A few scratches and some blows in the face. But what's the matter with you, Tom? You're lame."

"Yes, my ankle is on the blink--football game to-day; just before I got your letter. Oh, but I'm glad I reached you in time!"

"Yes, you just caught me. I'd been on my way West to-morrow. Oh Tom, I can't tell you how sorry I am about it all!"

"Never mind. It's all right now, and all can be explained, I guess."

"Of course it can."

"Say, when you fellows get through chinnin' maybe you'll tell me what you're goin' to do with me?" snarled the tramp.

"We surely will," said Tom. "We're going to tie you up, and then send for the police."

"You are! Not if I know it!" With an angry cry the man endeavored to break from the hold of the two lads. But they were too much for the fellow, though the struggle was not an easy one.

"We'd better fasten him in some way," suggested Ray. "Rip off his coat, Tom, and tie his arms in it. Maybe we'd better call for help."

"Where could we get any?"

"At Appleby's house. I fancy the old man would be glad to meet Mr.

Crouse again," and Ray Blake laughed.

"Don't take me to him!" whined the tramp, now much subdued. "Take me to jail, but not to that old skinflint."

"I'm afraid we haven't much choice," said Tom. "No more fighting now, or we won't be so gentle with you."