“No. That’s a new injury,” was the answer. “Rather a queer one, too. He might have been in a fight.” The lads remained standing together, for a little while, gazing at the now fast-disappearing cutter and its surly occupant. “Well, let’s get back to school,” proposed Jack. “It will soon be grub-time.” “And Tom can tell us more about that hunting trip,” suggested Bert. “All right,” agreed our hero, but as he walked along he was puzzling his brain, trying to think what Professor Skeel’s object was in coming back to Elmwood Hall. Perhaps if Tom could have seen Mr. Skeel a little later, as the cutter drew up at a road-house some miles away--a road-house that did not have a very enviable reputation in the neighborhood--Tom would have wondered still more over his former teacher’s return. For, as the cutter drew up in the drive, there peered from a window two men, one with a more evil-looking face than the other, which was his only claim to distinction. “There he comes,” murmured the man with the less-evil countenance. “Yes, but he’s late,” agreed the other. “Wonder what kept him?” “He looks mad--too,” commented his companion. A few moments later Professor Skeel entered the rear room of the road-house. The two men arose from the table at which they had been sitting. “Well, you kept your word, I see,” muttered Skeel to the man with the evil face. “You’re here, Whalen. And you too, Murker.” “Yes. We’re here, but you didn’t say what you wanted of us,” spoke the one addressed as Whalen. “You’ll know soon enough,” was the rejoinder. “We sha’n’t want anything--at least not for a while,” Mr. Skeel went on to the landlord, who had followed him into the room. “You can leave us alone. We’ll ring when we want you. And close the door when you go out,” he added, significantly. The landlord grunted. “Well, now, what’s the game?” asked Whalen, when Mr. Skeel had seated himself at the table. “Revenge! That’s the game!” was the fierce answer, and a fist was banged down on the table. “I want revenge, and I’m going to have it!” “Who’s the party?” demanded Murker. “Someone you don’t know, but whom you may soon. Tom Fairfield! I owe him a long score, but I’m going to begin to pay it now. I want you to help me, Whalen.” “Oh, I’ll help you quick enough,” was the ready answer. “He was instrumental in having you discharged from Elmwood Hall, wasn’t he?” went on the former instructor. “That’s what he was.” “Something about beating one of the smaller boys, was it not?” and Skeel smiled in a suggestive way, as though he rather relished, than otherwise, the plight of Whalen. “Naw, I only gave the kid a few taps ’cause he threw a snowball at me,” the discharged employee went on, “but that whelp, Fairfield, saw me, and complained to Doc. Meredith. Then I was fired.” “And you’d like a chance to get even, wouldn’t you?” “That’s what I would!” was the harsh answer.