At least, that turn on the part of the other had told him one
thing--it was no Columbia fellow who had played this miserable
trick upon the football squad; so undoubtedly he must belong in
Clifford.

Despite the efforts of the school authorities, there was always
more or less laying of wagers on these games. Driven away from the
racetracks by recent strict State legislation, it seemed that
those who made books were seeking all manner of sports, in order
to carry on their games of chance.

So Frank consoled himself in the belief that this might be some
agent of these gamesters, rather than a Clifford schoolboy
intending to take a mean advantage of the rival team.

He was outrunning the fugitive, and it looked as though, if the
chase were continued five minutes more, Frank was sure to overtake
him.

Then the road leading north toward the river was reached. To
Frank's disgust, he saw the other drag a bicycle out of some
bushes, and, while he made a swift rush, hoping to yet come upon
the fellow before he got away, it was only to see his intended
quarry spin off along the road.

Frank followed a short distance, still cherishing a faint hope
that something might happen to upset the other, but gradually the
figure of the fleeing spy began to vanish, and he had to give it
up.