“Hardly as bad as that, old chap,” smiled Locke, as he wound the handkerchief round the foot and drew it tight. “There’s no danger at all. We’ll have you fixed up all right. It doesn’t hurt much, does it?” “Aw, I don’t care a rap fer ther hurtin’, but it bled so like thunder that it got my goat,” was the reply. Janet, watching, saw Tom bring two corners of the folded handkerchief together to tie them. On one of those corners her eyes beheld some initials, plainly and distinctly worked; so plain and distinct were they that there could be no possible mistake as to what they were. She stared at them, wondering, for the letters were “P. H.” “There you are, old man,” said Locke cheerfully, when he had knotted the ends of the handkerchief securely. “Never mind if the blood does come through; the doctor will stop that pretty quick. Now, come on, and I’ll take you to him pickapack.” He lifted the little fellow lightly, and swung him to his back. Janet rose, and followed, the children, chattering, trailing after. “P. H.,” she whispered to herself. “Those letters surely do not stand for Tom Locke.” But there was another name which they served――a name which Benton King had declared rightfully belonged to the man who called himself Tom Locke. CHAPTER XXXIII KING AROUSED Benton King, politely invited――nay, urged――to call on Bob Hutchinson at the Central Hotel, dropped round that same Sunday afternoon, out of passing curiosity, and listened with swiftly growing interest to what Hutchinson had to tell. “I knew it!” exclaimed King triumphantly, when the vengeful manager had finished. “I knew it all the time, but I didn’t have the proof. For the last few days I’ve been expecting a letter that ought to contain all the proof anybody wants.” “What more,” inquired Hutchinson, “do you want than what I have given you? I have shown you the letter written to Hazelton, which was mailed to him in an envelope addressed to Tom Locke. That certainly nails it on him for fair.” “Yes,” said Bent, with a nod, “but I’ll have something more convincing than that for a skeptical person, if I’m not badly mistaken. He was a fool to deny his identity in the first place.” “Right; especially to his manager. We protect college guys who confide in us, and let them play under fake names if they wish, but this man has been crooked with me, and there’s no reason why I should cover him up. You should have seen the other letter I spoke of, the one he was writing. I read it, thinking he might give himself away. He knocked me in it, and he soaked you.” “Me?” “Yes. He said you were a fellow with more money than brains, thanks to a rich father. He also referred to a certain young lady in town by the name of Janet Harting; said you were chasing round after her, but he proposed to get busy and cut you out, as she was the prettiest girl he had seen around here, and would serve to amuse him while he had to stay here.”