"That's so, Frank."
"And I haven't the least proof in the world that they are the thieves. No, I must get about it in a different way."
"But how?"
"You see, this man Brady knows me by sight. He doesn't know you. Do you think you could locate the old cabin, Bob?"
"I don't think I could go direct to it," answered Bob, "but I am pretty sure that by hunting for it and making some inquiries I could find it."
"All right; try it, Bob. If you succeed, sort of spy around and you may pick up something that will give us an idea of what those men are about.
You see, the fact of Brady being here makes me anxious on another score."
"What is that?"
"They mentioned the academy here. I am afraid that Brady has some plan concerning Ned Foreman."
"Say, Frank, it looks that way," declared Bob thoughtfully. "Why don't you tell Ned about it?"
"I don't want to worry him until I find out something more."
"I'll get on the track of that old cabin and those men first chance I have," promised Bob. "Say, Frank, I was coming to tell you I've just done a big thing, Dean Ritchie says."
"What is it, Bob?"
"You know we are going to have a baseball game and some other matches to-morrow."
"Yes, I know," nodded Frank.
"Well, there's a foot race scheduled. The crack runner of our crowd, Purtelle, is out of trim, and they were looking for a substitute. I don't want to brag, but about the one thing in the athletic line I can do well is running."
"Then you must try to fill the bill."
"I'm going to. Ritchie asked me to give them a test. It's a long-distance spurt--twice around the track over in the meadow where they train their horses on the stock farm. I made the sample run just now. I don't know but what the crowd were guying me, but they seemed to go wild over it."
"Oh, I guess they're in earnest, Bob."
"I hope so, for that big bully, Banbury, is to be my opponent, and I'd do anything to take the conceit out of him and his crowd. Ritchie timed me, and said I had discounted the best record ever made by an academy runner."
"That's grand," said Frank.
"They took me to the gymnasium and gave me this pair of shoes for the ones I had on. They're going to grease up and soften my own shoes to make the running easier, they say. I hope I don't disappoint them."
"You won't, I am sure," said Frank encouragingly.
The next day was Saturday. The weather was ideal, and the boys anticipated a great deal of pleasure for the holiday.
Frank was pleased when his friend, Ned Foreman, showed up about ten o'clock. Ned looked neat and handsome in the light checked suit Frank had given him. He was modest and natural, and Ritchie and his crowd treated him nicely.
There was the first ball game of the series after lunch. Then the whole school adjourned to the training track for the foot race.
Banbury, Mace and their chums were in great evidence. The ball game had come out a tie, and even this barren honor swelled them up considerably.
Banbury was gotten up in a flashy sporting suit, as though he was in for the championship of the world, and Mace was also overdressed. Bob wore his every-day clothes. He looked eager and hopeful as Frank helped him put on his running shoes.
The evening previous Bob's remarkable test run had been noised around the school, and Frank somewhat wondered at the vaunting spirit shown by the Banbury crowd.
The start of the race was made in good order. The opponents were off on the second, and they looked in splendid trim as they kept evenly abreast up to the first quarter post. There Bob forged ahead slightly, and there was a cheer from his excited friends. Then he lagged, and Banbury got the lead, and his cohorts gave out ringing huzzahs.
"What's wrong?" uttered Ned breathlessly, as Banbury, with a jump and kicking up his heels derisively at the Ritchie group, shot by the starting post on the second spurt with Bob fully ten yards to the rear.
"Bob is lamed," said Frank in consternation. "See, he's limping."
"Go it, Bob!" yelled the voices of a dozen loyal friends.
Bob looked haggard and unfit. One foot dragged, and he acted like a person in acute pain. At the encouraging word, however, he braced up, made a prodigious spurt, but at the end of fifty yards hobbled and fell flat.
A cry of dismay went up from the Ritchie crowd, while Banbury's adherents made the air echo with delirious shouts of triumph.
Suddenly, however, Bob was on his feet again and off down the course like an arrow.
"He's thrown off his shoes. What's up, I wonder?" spoke Ritchie.
"He's gaining!"
"He's up to him!"
"Past him--huzzah!"
The spectators held their breath. Never had the boys of Bellwood School witnessed so sensational a foot race.
Bob Upton flew like the wind. He was five--ten--twenty yards in the lead of his laboring antagonist.
His face was colorless as he crossed the starting line. A flash of triumph was in his eyes, but Frank saw that he was reeling. Our hero sprang forward just in time to catch the falling champion in his outstretched arms--the winner of the race.
CHAPTER XVII
THE TRAMP AGAIN
"He's in a dead faint--give him air," ordered Dean Ritchie.
"Get a dipper of water," said Frank quickly, letting Bob slip gently to the grass.
There was a pump just beyond the enclosure. Ned ran to it, and soon Frank was sponging Bob's face with cool water.
"Who did it--and why?" spoke Bob suddenly and opening his eyes and sitting up.