CHAPTER XX
A STRANGE CONFERENCE
“You missed it, old man; we had a dandy time,” remarked Frank, when he, together with Sid and Phil, drifted into the sleeping tent some time later.
“That’s right, Tom,” added Sid. “The cake was good.”
“And the lemonade, too,” added Phil.
“Um!” sleepily grunted Tom. Or was he only simulating sleep?
“And the girls were jolly,” went on Frank.
“And Ruth wanted to know why you hadn’t come,” proceeded Sid, keeping up the chorus of description.
“Oh, let me go to sleep,” growled Tom.
“Bossy and his chum blew in, but they didn’t stay long,” added Phil. “I guess they didn’t expect to find us there.”
“Was Boswell there?” demanded Tom, sitting up on his cot.
“Sure,” retorted Sid, at the same time giving Frank a nudge in the ribs as much as to say: “There’s where the shoe pinches.”
“I’ve got a headache,” said Tom, only half truthfully. “I guess that row in the hot sun was a little too much for me to-day.”
“Can we do anything for you?” asked Frank, trying to make his voice sound anxious.
“No, I’ll sleep it off,” and turning with his face toward the tent wall, Tom proceeded to slumber—or pretend to.
It was two days after this when Tom and Ruth met. He had studiously avoided calling at the Tyler cottage, though the other boys went over each evening. Tom gave some excuse, and each time Sid and the others came in at night they would remark about the good time they had had.
“You’re missing it,” declared Phil, winking at his chums. “Boswell is filling in your place fine.”
“Was he there again?” snapped Tom.
“Sure thing. He and Sis seem to get on well together, though I don’t care for the chap. Still he isn’t such a bad sort as I thought at first.”
As a matter of fact Boswell had not called since that first evening, but Phil guessed Tom’s secret, and wickedly and feloniously egged it on.
“What’s the matter, Tom; why haven’t you called?” asked Ruth with perfect sincerity when she and the tall pitcher did meet, following some busy days devoted for the most part by the boys to rowing practice. “I wanted to ask you about something?”
“I—er—I’ve been busy,” he said, trying to make himself believe that. Ruth didn’t. “Besides,” he blurted out, with a school-boy mannerism that he hated himself for disclosing, “I thought Mr. Boswell could keep you interested.”
“Tom Parsons!” and Ruth’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“He seems to be quite a steady caller,” he stumbled on, growing more and more confused and uncomfortable. He felt more childish than ever, and I am not saying he was not. “I didn’t know whether there’d be room for me and——”
“Tom, I don’t think that’s fair of you,” and Ruth was plainly hurt. “Mr. Boswell has only been over one evening, when the other boys were there, and——”
“Only once?” cried Tom.
“That’s all. The same evening of the day when we were out in his launch. I couldn’t help talking to him then, and if you think——”
“I don’t think anything!” broke in Tom. “I’ve been a chump. They said he’d been over there every night. Oh, wait until I get hold of your brother!”
“Did Phil say that?”
“He did.”
“Then I’ll settle with him, too. But, Tom, I wanted to ask if you thought there was any chance of finding my brooch?”
“I don’t know, Ruth. It begins to look rather hopeless.”
“That’s what I thought, and, as long as I’m not going to get it back I may as well admit that it is gone. I can’t go on deceiving people this way, even in so small a matter. I suppose it was careless of me to let the clasp get broken in the first place. I put it on in a hurry one day, and strained it. And in the second place, I suppose I ought to have given it to a more reliable jeweler.
“But that Mr. Farson called at the college one day soliciting repair work to do. He said he had some from Boxer Hall, so I thought he was all right, and let him take my pin. I’m sorry now.”
“Yes, it is too bad,” assented Tom, “but it can’t be helped. I don’t really believe, Ruth, that there’s any use looking on this island for the pin. I have been keeping my eyes open for it, but I’m beginning to think that it’s like hunting for the proverbial thimble in the straw pile.”
“You mean needle in the haystack.”
“Well, it’s the same thing. I never can get those proverbs straight. The only hope is that we might, some day, discover who took the things, and your brooch might be recovered. But it’s a pretty slim chance, now that all our clues seemed to have failed.”
“That’s what I thought. So I guess I’ll confess and brave grandmother’s wrath. But, oh! I know she’ll never leave me her lovely pearls!”
“Maybe someone else will,” suggested Tom. “Will you come down to the store and have some soda water? He’s got in a fresh lot, I believe.”
“I will, Tom, for I’m thirsty enough to drink even the lemon-pop Mr. Richards sells. Come on,” and the two walked on, the little cloud that had come between them having blown away. But Ruth said nothing about Boswell’s promise to show her his mother’s old-fashioned brooch. Perhaps she thought he had forgotten the matter, and, she reasoned, there was no need of awakening Tom’s jealousy.
It was after Tom had parted from Ruth, with a promise to call that evening with the other boys, that, walking along the island shore, taking a short cut to the camp, he heard voices coming from the direction of the water. He looked through the screen of bushes, and saw Boswell and the Mexican caretaker, sitting in a boat not far from shore. The college lad was handing Mendez something, and by the sun’s rays Tom caught the glitter of gold. At the same time a puff of wind brought their voices plainly to him, the water aiding in carrying the tones.
“Do you think you could get an old-fashioned pin like that?” Boswell was asking. “You know something about jewelry; don’t you?”
“Of a surety, senor. But this would be hard to duplicate. It is very old.”
“I know, but I want one like that, or as near it as possible. Can’t you get one the same place you got that?”
“No, senor, that was the only one there was, and when I sell him to you for your respected mother I regret that I can get no more of him.”
“Where did you get that?” asked Boswell, as he took back from the Mexican what Tom could now see was some sort of breastpin.
“Why do you ask, senor?” retorted the man, quickly.
“Oh, nothing special. Why, you act as though you thought that I was going to accuse you of stealing it.”
“Never, senor!” exclaimed the man quickly. “I get this from a friend, and I sell it to you for very little more than I paid.”
“Oh, it was cheap enough,” went on the lad. “I’m not kicking. Only I’d like to get another. I knew mother would like this, and she did. She loves old-fashioned things.”
“And you want another for one who also loves of the time that is past—is that it, senor?”
“You’ve guessed it, Mendez. But keep mum about it. I want to surprise her.”
Then the wind, blowing in a contrary direction, carried the voices away, and Tom kept on, having only halted momentarily.
CHAPTER XXI
IN THE SHACK
“Jove!” murmured Tom, as he hurried on, “what have I stumbled upon?”
For the time being his thoughts were in a whirl, for like a flash it had come to him that the pin he had seen being handled by Mendez and Boswell was Ruth’s missing brooch.
“I couldn’t get close enough for a good look, but it sure was an old-fashioned pin, from their talk, and it looked like the one I’ve seen Ruth wear. The one with the secret spring.”
He walked on a little farther.
“Now what’s to be done?” he asked himself. “I guess I’ll sit down and think this thing out.”
Rapidly Tom went over in his mind what he had seen and heard.
“This seems to let Boswell out of it,” he murmured. “And I’m glad of it—for the honor of Randall,” and Tom thought of the events that had taken place some time ago, when the honor of Randall seemed to be threatened, events which I have narrated in the book of that title.
“If Boswell bought the pin of Mendez, then it must be the Mexican who is the man we’re after,” Tom went on. “He deals in jewelry, though most of it is that filigree silver stuff that I don’t fancy. And Boswell wants Mendez to get him another old-fashioned pin like the one he already has. I wonder who for?”
But Tom did not wonder long on this point.
“The insolent puppy!” he exclaimed, clenching his fists. “If he tries to give Ruth a pin I’ll——”
And then he calmed down, for he realized that, aside from the ethics, or good taste of the matter, Boswell had as much right to present Ruth with a token as had he himself.
“I guess I’d better reason along a new line,” he told himself. “I’ll have to let the boys know about this, and——”
Then, like a flash something else occurred to him.
“No, I can’t do that,” he said. “Phil isn’t supposed to know that Ruth has lost her pin—that is, not yet. It would be too bad if the grandmother were to turn cranky, because of the loss of the brooch, and give her pearls to someone else—at least until I can buy Ruth some pearls myself—and that’s a long way off, I’m afraid,” thought Tom, ruefully.
“No, I’ve got to play this hand alone,” he went on. “I can’t bring the fellows in—just yet. And I must tell Ruth not to admit that she has lost her brooch—at least, not yet. I may be able to get it back for her. The idea of Boswell having it—at least, I think it’s the same one.
“And then by Jove! If Mendez had the brooch he has the other stuff that was in the jewelry box—the Boxer Hall cups and so on. Tom Parsons, you’ve stumbled on the solution of the mystery, I do believe. And you’ve got to work it out alone, for if you tell any of the fellows Ruth’s secret will come out. Now, how are you going to do it?”
He pondered on the matter, and the first thing he decided on was that Ruth must be warned not to admit her loss.
“I’ll attend to that right away,” murmured the lad.
“Why, Tom, is anything the matter?” asked Ruth, when he saw her, a little later, at the Tyler cottage.
“Well, yes, something, but——”
“Oh, is Phil hurt?” and she clasped her hands.
“No, nothing like that. What made you think something was up, Ruth?”
“Because your face told me. What is it?”
“Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t tell—just yet—that you haven’t your brooch.”
“Oh, Tom! Do you mean you think you can get it back?”
“I think so, but I’m not sure. But don’t say anything.”
“I won’t. Oh! I’m only too glad not to have to admit it, though I’m afraid it’s only postponing the fatal day. But what have you found?”
“I can’t tell you Ruth—just yet. I’ve got quite a problem to work out. Later on I may need your help.”
“Why, can’t some of the boys?—oh, I see, you’re keeping my secret for me. That’s fine of you!”
“Just wait—that’s all,” was Tom’s final advice. In the exuberance of his youth he imagined, that, should it prove that Boswell had bought Ruth’s pin from the Mexican, the brooch could, by some means or other, be recovered.
“And now I am up against it,” he went on, still communing with himself, after he had left Ruth. “I can’t get the boys to help me, so I’ve got to go alone. And what’s the first thing to be done?”
There were several points that needed clearing up.
“In the first place,” reasoned Tom, “if Mendez had the brooch, which was in the jewel box, he has, or had, the other things. The question is—has he them yet? If he sold Boswell the pin he may have sold the other articles. I guess the only thing for me to do is to try and get in his shack—when he’s not home. It would be a ticklish piece of work to stumble in there, and be searching about, and have him find me. I wonder if I can get in when he’s out? He does go out quite often.”
Tom went on to camp, and his absentmindedness caused his chums no little wonder, until Sid exclaimed:
“Oh, it’s all right—Tom’s got the symptoms.”
“What symptoms?” demanded our hero.
“The love symptoms. A lovers’ quarrel made up is worse than falling in at first. Look out!” for Tom had shied a shoe at his tormentor.
“Practice to-day,” announced Frank, the next morning. “Mr. Pierson said he’d be over early and we’ve got to go down and get the shell. He’s going to put us through a course of sprouts to-day.”
“All right,” yawned Tom, with a fine appearance of indifference. “But I’ve got to mix the stuff for cake if I’m going to bake it.” He had promised to show his skill in pastry-making. “So if you fellows will go down and get the shell I’ll be ready when you come back.”
“Three of us can’t row a four-oared shell,” protested Sid.
“Well, tow it up by the launch, then. I’m not going to have the cake spoiled.”
“That’s right,” declared Frank. “The cook is a sacred person. We’ll tow up the shell,” and they went off, never suspecting their chum.
And how Tom had dissembled! The making of the cake, he knew, had only been a subterfuge, for he had made up his mind he would buy one at the store, and offer some excuse to his chums that the camp-made one had “fallen” which, I believe, is the technical word to use when the top of a cake displays a tendency to lie on the bottom of the pan, and not stand up properly. I was once a camp cook, and some of my friends are still alive to bear witness against me.
Now what Tom planned was this: As soon as his chums were out of the way he decided to enter the Mexican’s shack, having learned the evening before, by skillful questioning, that Mendez had some work to do around a distant cottage, and would be away all morning.
“And we’ll see what I can find there,” murmured Tom, as he set out.
It was an easy matter to enter the shack, at least that part where the Mexican lived. The store section was closed, but Tom knew there was an entrance to it through the main shack.
A carelessly-fastened window gave admittance, and soon after his chums had departed to get the shell (which was kept now in the new college boathouse, that structure having been nearly completed), Tom found himself inside the shack.
He began rummaging about, taking care not to unduly disturb objects. Tom was looking in a trunk, that appeared to contain some clothing, as well as some of the Mexican drawn-work, and some silks and satins, when he heard a noise outside.
“Someone is coming!” he whispered. “I’ve got to hide!” and he made a dive under the cot.
CHAPTER XXII
THE PAWN TICKETS
“Well, I’m certainly going to be in a nice pickle if that’s Mendez coming back,” thought Tom, as he gave the blanket on the cot a surreptitious pull to better conceal his person. “I guess I was seven kinds of a chump to come here. I ought to have told the fellows, and then one of them could have done sentry duty for me. As it is, if anyone comes in here I’m as good as caught. A nice story it will make, too—a Randall man found in a caretaker’s shack.”
He listened intently, and heard the approaching steps pause outside the door. Then came a key rattling in the lock.
“Just my luck,” murmured Tom. “It’s Mendez coming back. That job didn’t last as long as I thought it would, or else he’s forgotten something. Whew! If he sees me there’ll be a fight all right. He’ll take me for a burglar, sure, or else he’ll know why I’m here. I wonder if all Mexicans carry knives? There isn’t much here for a fellow to defend himself with.”
Tom peered out from under the cot, and made up his mind, if worst came to worst, that he would roll out, and grab up the heavy stove poker he saw.
“That will make a pretty good club,” he reasoned. “Hang it all! why didn’t I tell the fellows? If this Mendez does me up he may hide my body here, and the fellows will never know what became of me. I ought to have told them—and yet I did it this way to keep Ruth’s secret. I meant it for the best.”
Again Tom listened. The fumbling at the lock of the door continued.
“If that’s Mendez he doesn’t seem to know how to open his own door,” mused Tom. “Maybe he’s got the wrong key.”
This seemed to be so, for there was a jingling as of several keys, and then a voice was heard to mutter. Tom started in his hiding place under the cot.
“That’s not the voice of Mendez!” he exclaimed. “What am I up against?”
A wild idea came to him.
“Maybe some of our fellows got wise to the same thing I did, and they’re trying to get in here,” he thought. “If they see me there’ll be a surprise,” and he smiled grimly.
The unknown person outside the shack seemed to be trying a number of keys, one after the other, in the lock. At the same time there was an impatient muttering.
“That’s not Mendez,” decided Tom. “And from the voice it’s none of our fellows, either. I wonder if it can be Boswell?”
The complications that might ensue if it was the rich student, who seemed to be sharing some secret with the Mexican, kept Tom busy thinking for a few seconds, and then his attention was further drawn toward the person outside.
“Hang it all!” exclaimed a voice in nasal tones—plainly the voice of an elderly man—“he’s got some newfangled kind of a lock on here, and I can’t get in. I wonder if a window is open?”
There was the rattle of a bunch of keys being returned to a pocket, and then the sound of footsteps coming around to the side of the shack.
“He’s going to try my game,” thought Tom.
“Well if it isn’t Mendez it’s someone who hasn’t any more right in here than I have, and I’m not in so much danger. But who can it be?”
There was a struggle at the window, the sound of a fall, as if the attempt to enter had failed. Then came muttered words of anger and pain, and they were followed by the sound of feet beating a tattoo on the side of the shack.
“He’s scrambling up to the window,” thought Tom, pulling the cot blankets farther down. A moment later someone dropped down inside the shack, and remained quietly in the middle of the floor, as though taking a survey of the place.
“Humph! It ain’t much changed from when I was here last,” a voice said, and Tom peered out from beneath a cautiously-raised blanket. The identity of the unexpected visitor startled him.
“Old Jake Blasdell!” murmured Tom, in a whisper. “The former caretaker! What in the world does he want here? I thought he had cleared out of these diggings.”
Blasdell, for it was he, stood in the middle of the room of the shack where Mendez cooked, ate and slept—did everything, in fact, save conduct his small store, which was an addition.
“It’s better than when I had it,” Blasdell murmured, for, as I have said, when Mendez succeeded the former caretaker he had moved the shack from the place where Blasdell had built it, and had considerably improved it. “Much better,” went on the old man. “Them Mexicans ain’t so lazy as I’ve heard. Lucky for me I knowed of that window that didn’t close very tight or I mightn’t have gotten in. And lucky I happened to see Mendez as I did, and learned that he would be away all day. Now I’m in here where can I hide ’em. I don’t dare carry ’em around with me much longer. Folks is beginning to suspect. And I’ll take away that piece I left here, too.”
“What in the world am I stacking up against?” thought the puzzled Tom. He looked out eagerly. Blasdell’s back was turned toward the cot, but the old man did not appear to have anything to hide.
“Can he be out of his mind?” thought Tom.
He heard the man fumbling about, but from his position could not see what he was doing, and Tom dared not put out his head from under the cot.
“There, I guess nobody’ll think of lookin’ for ’em there,” went on the old man. “I s’pose mebby I ought t’ destroy ’em, but they may come in useful some time or other. I’ll leave ’em here, and take away that trinket.”
Then came a sound as if the man had stepped down off a chair, or bench. Tom wished he could see what he had done, but at least he knew that something had been hidden on that side of the room were the stove was.
“Now I wonder if I can get out of the consarned window?” the man murmured. Tom heard him cross the room, and, after a struggle, there came the sound of a jump on the earth outside.
“He’s gone!” murmured Tom, as he listened to the retreating footsteps. Then he scrambled out from under the cot, and began making a hasty search of the room.
If he had hoped to find Ruth’s pin, the cups from Boxer Hall or any of the missing jewelry, Tom was disappointed. He made a thorough, but quick, search, not only in the shack proper, but in the store, though he knew Blasdell had not gone in there.
“What could he have hidden?” thought Tom. “I’ve got to get out of here soon, or the fellows will be waiting for me.”
He saw a small wooden clock on the mantle over the stove. An idea came to him.
“Maybe that clock hides a secret hole in the wall,” he thought. Stepping on a chair he moved the timepiece. As he did so the door came open, and in the lower part, where swung the pendulum, he saw several bits of paper. There was no hole in the wall, but, wonderingly Tom picked up the papers. Then he started.
“Pawn tickets!” he cried, “and some of them for silver cups! I’m on the trail at last!”
CHAPTER XXIII
TWO MISSING MEN
“Well, what do you know about that?”
“So that’s where you sneaked off to when we went after the shell?”
“And that’s why you didn’t bake the cake?”
Tom’s three chums gave expression to these sentiments as they looked over the bunch of pawn tickets he had brought away with him from the Mexican’s shack. A hasty glance through them had shown Tom that none was for a brooch, and realizing that he could still keep Ruth’s secret, he had decided to tell his friends the whole story. Which he did, keeping back only as much as was necessary not to let them know of Ruth’s loss.
He related how he had overheard a “certain” conversation between Boswell and the Mexican, hurrying over that part of the story so they might not ask what the talk was about. Then he told of his own and Blasdell’s visits to the shack.
“Say, this beats anything I ever heard of!” declared Frank.
“That’s right, but what did the old beggar hide—if anything?” asked Sid.
“The pawn tickets, of course,” declared Phil.
“I’m not sure of that, of course,” spoke Tom.
“I didn’t see him, for I couldn’t look out far enough from under the cot. But he was certainly on that side of the room. And he didn’t hide the cups and jewelry, for they’re in pawn, as these tickets show. So it must have been the tickets.”
“Then if he had the tickets he took the stuff!” declared Sid.
“Not necessarily,” objected Frank. “The Mexican and this Blasdell may be in partnership in crime. Either or both may have taken the jewelry, and Blasdell may have pawned it. Anyhow, I think this lets Boswell out, and I’m glad of it.”
“So am I!” exclaimed Tom, and yet he wondered what the rich student and the Mexican could have in common, and he wondered about the old-fashioned brooch he had seen flashing in the sun, when the two talked in the boat. Also he wondered what Boswell wanted of another like it. In fact Tom was doing considerable wondering, and it was a puzzle in the solution of which he could not ask his chums’ aid.
“So that’s why you wanted us to go get the shell, and leave you here; is it?” asked Phil.
“Yes, I wanted time to investigate, and I didn’t want you fellows to give me the ha ha! if nothing came of it.”
“But lots did come of it!” declared Frank. “We can clear ourselves of the faint suspicion that I believe Boxer Hall thinks hangs over us, and we can get them back their trophy cups, and the other people their jewelry.”
“Yes, I suppose the pawnbroker can be made to give up stolen stuff,” said Tom. He was puzzling his brains to think of some reason why Ruth’s brooch was not pawned with the other things. Recalling the list of missing articles, given out when the jeweler offered the reward, it was seen that all were represented by the pawn tickets, save Ruth’s trinket.
“They’re made out in the name ‘A. Smith,’” said Phil, as he scrutinized the bits of paper. “Might be a blacksmith for all you can tell—probably a fake name. And the pawnbroker’s place is in Munroe,” he went on, naming a town about twenty-five miles away.
“Well,” spoke Tom, “I suppose the thing to do is to go there, see the police, get the stuff, and return it to the jeweler. Then he can do as he likes with it.”
“Incidentally we’ll collect the reward,” declared Sid.
“We’ll donate it to the new racing association,” suggested Frank. “Wouldn’t it be a joke, if we did take that part of the reward offered by Boxer Hall, and use it to help beat them in the race!”
“Sort of adding insult to injury,” suggested Tom. “But I’m thinking we ought to let the Boxer Hall lads know about these tickets, and that there’s a prospect of them getting back their trophies.”
There were two opinions about this. Tom and Sid were one side, while Frank and Phil held it would be better to first get the stuff and then let Boxer Hall know.
“‘There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip,’ you know, Tom,” said the Big Californian. “Not meaning a pun, either. But there may be some complications and it may take some time to get the stuff away from the pawnbroker. A delay would only fret all those who have lost things, and would be unpleasant for us. Get the stuff first, I say, and then hand it around.”
And in the end this idea prevailed.
“Well, I can see where we get in precious little practice to-day,” remarked Tom. “I think we’d all better go to Haddonfield and give these tickets to Mr. Farson. Let him get the police busy.”
“All right, we’re with you,” said Phil. “But we need the practice, for it won’t be long now before we’re back at college.”
“What about arresting Blasdell and the Mexican?” asked Sid.
“Let the jeweler attend to that,” suggested Frank.
Without telling the girls of their discovery, the boys went to town in their launch, which, for a wonder, did not break down. Frank declared it was because he had put in a new set of batteries.
That Mr. Farson was astonished, is putting it mildly. He could not thank the boys enough. Privately, to Tom, who managed to get him a word in secret, the jeweler said he could not account for Ruth’s pin not being represented by a ticket.
“But I’ll look all through that pawnbroker’s stock for it,” he said.
Mr. Farson decided that they would first go to Munroe and get the cups and jewelry, and later see about causing the arrest of the guilty person, or persons.
“The pawnbroker would have to identify the thief, anyhow,” he explained. “Now you boys go back to the island and stay there. I’ll hire an auto and go to Munroe. As soon as I get back I’ll run over and let you know how I make out. Oh, this is good news for me!”
“What became of Blasdell after he jumped out of the shack, Tom?” asked Phil.
“How could I tell? I was under the cot.”
“That’s so. And he doesn’t seem to be around these diggings any more. He just showed up with these pawn tickets, and then lit out again. And to think he was the fellow who had the stuff all the while!”
“He or Mendez,” said Tom. “I’m not sure which. It’s queer that Blasdell should come all the way back to hide the tickets in the shack. I heard him speak of getting something that belonged to him, but I don’t know what it was.”
They argued the matter, but could come to no agreement. Going back to their island camp, they found time for a little practice in the shell, Mr. Pierson coaching them. Then they waited impatiently for the return of the jeweler.
“I wonder what Mendez will think when he gets back and finds his place has been ransacked?” suggested Sid.
“He won’t know it,” declared Tom. “I was mighty careful, and Blasdell wasn’t inside more than a few minutes. Let’s take a stroll around there, and size it up.”
“No, keep away,” decided Frank. “It might make trouble. Let’s wait until Mr. Farson comes.”
It was nearly dusk when they saw a small launch approaching the island, and they recognized the jeweler as one of the occupants.
“He doesn’t seem very joyous,” remarked Tom. “He isn’t waving his hat, or anything like that.”
Somehow his words brought a feeling of doubt to his chums, yet they could not tell why. Nearer came the launch. It drew up to the little dock the boys had made.
“Well?” queried Tom, nervously. “How did you make out?”
“Not at all,” was the surprising reply.
“What! Didn’t you get the things?” demanded Phil.
“No. The pawnbroker closed out his place of business last week, and the store is vacant.”
For a moment no one spoke. Then Frank said:
“But look here. You know a pawnbroker has to be licensed. He can’t go out of business that way. He may move, but he has to let people know about it. And he can’t dispose of their things inside of a year, either. That man had no right to do that.”
“I don’t know about his rights,” said the jeweler, “but the fact remains that he has skipped out. He may have taken the cups and jewelry with him for all I know. The police say he was a sort of ‘fence’ through which stolen property was often disposed of. He’s been arrested several times, but nothing could be proved against him.”
“What did you do?” asked Sid.
“The police in Munroe promised to try and trace him. I’m going to have circulars printed, too, and sent to other cities, asking for news of this pawnbroker.”
“Say, this is tough, to almost get the stuff and then lose it!” remarked Phil. “It’s a good thing we didn’t tell the Boxer Hall lads.”
“That’s what,” declared Tom.
“Fellows, I’ve got an idea!” exclaimed Sid.
“Chain it so it doesn’t get away,” advised Frank.
“I say let’s go to that Mexican’s shack, and see if we can get anything out of him,” went on Sid. “We got on the trail there, and he must be mixed up in it some way. Come on, Mr. Farson, you’ve got a right to question him.”
“I believe I will!” decided the jeweler, and he followed the lads toward the shack, through the lengthening shadows.
“I guess he isn’t home,” remarked Tom, as they saw no light in the place.
“Knock and see,” suggested Phil.
A tap on the door brought no response. Tom peered a bit closer.
“The place isn’t closed,” he exclaimed. He pushed open the door. Someone struck a match. Then came an exclamation of surprise from all.
For there was evidence that Mendez had hastily fled. The room was in confusion, things being scattered about, and a look into the store showed that everything he had had for sale had been removed. Mendez was missing, as was the pawnbroker and the jewelry.
CHAPTER XXIV
BACK AT RANDALL
“This is the limit!”
“Where could he have gone?”
“He smelt a rat all right—he’s sure mixed up in this business.”
“And the quiet way he sneaked off! Let’s find out if anyone saw him go.”
Thus the chums exclaimed as the queer situation dawned upon them. Mr. Farson, too, was surprised, and did not know what to make of it.
“I think I will devote all my efforts to locating the pawnbroker,” he said. “If I get the stuff back that belongs to other persons, I don’t care so much about an arrest.”
“But we’d like to solve the mystery, seeing that we had a hand in it,” said Tom. “I wonder where Mendez could have gone?”
But no one knew—no one had seen him go. Later that evening, when the young men, after the jeweler had gone to his store, made inquiries of the owner of the cottage where the Mexican had been working all that day, they were told by a servant that a boy, coming in a boat, had brought a message to the caretaker. He had seemed surprised, and had hurried off, leaving his work partly finished, promising to return. But he did not, and that was the last seen of him—at least for the time being.
Evidently he had taken alarm at something, had hurried to the shack, hastily packed up his belongings, and fled in a boat. In fact the rowboat he generally used was missing.
As far as it went there was nothing criminal in his actions. There was no direct connection between him and the missing jewelry. He bore a good reputation among the cottagers, and had always done his work well. He was honest in his dealings, and his word could be taken in regard to the things he sold. Some of the cottagers even owed him for work performed.
“It’s another mystery connected with this strange affair,” said Tom, as he and his chums turned in for the night. “We may get to the bottom of it some day.”
“I hope so,” murmured Frank. “We’ve been doing more detective work than rowing of late. We’ll have to buckle down from now on. College opens in three weeks.”
Of course the flight of Mendez was known to the girls, as well as to all others on the island, but the circumstances connected with it, and the finding of the pawn tickets, was kept a secret.
I say from all, but that is not quite correct. Tom did tell Ruth all, and they both puzzled over the fact that there was no ticket for the brooch. But Tom did not tell Ruth what he had overheard between Boswell and Mendez.
“It might be Ruth’s brooch that Boswell bought of Mendez, for his mother,” reasoned Tom. “If Ruth thought so she might make a fuss and insist on having it back. Then, again, it might not be hers, and that would make trouble. I’ve got to investigate a little more before I tell her.”
The Boswell family closed up their cottage the next week, and left for their mountain home, where the rich lad and his parents were to spend the rest of the vacation.
Our boys put in some hard practice in the shell, once or twice getting enough rowers so that they could use the eight. Mr. Pierson gave them valuable coaching.
Then, on his advice, they gave themselves up to a good rest, and the enjoyment of camp life.
“You’ll want a week or two when you don’t see an oar,” he explained. “There is such a thing as overdoing it. And you will soon be back at college you say, and begin hard training. So take a rest now.”
And the boys did, though their “rest” consisted chiefly in giving the girls a good time. The wheezy little launch was worked to the limit.
Then came the approach of the college season. Several cottages on the island were closed. The girls said farewell to Madge, for they must spend some time with their own folks, and one day Tom remarked:
“Say, fellows, let’s break camp. It’s no fun here without the girls.”
“That’s right,” agreed Sid, and so the tents were struck, and our heroes went their several ways to enjoy what was left of their vacation before again gathering at Randall. And in that time nothing new developed about the missing cups and jewelry. Nor was any word heard of the pawnbroker or Mendez.
“Hello, there’s Dutch Housenlager, bigger than ever!”
“Yes, and there’s Bricktop redder than ever. I say, Brick!”
“Hello, Parsons, you look as brown as a berry. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Camping.”
“You look it. I was at the shore—beastly hot, too!”
“Say, isn’t the new boathouse swell?”
“Nothing like it. Oh, it’s going to be great at Randall this Fall.”
“Over this way, Henderson! Where’s Phil and Frank?” cried Tom.
“I don’t know. I just got in. Have you been up to the room?”
“No, I just landed, too. Have you fed your face?”
“Not since I got here. Let’s grub and then we’ll open up the place. Hi, there, Snail! How’s the night work?”
“Oh, so-so,” replied Sam Looper, re-christened “Snail,” because of his slowness, and his propensity for night prowling.
“Here come the Jersey twins!”
“That’s right. I hope Jerry makes a good coxswain in the varsity eight,” went on Tom. “We need him.”
“Hear you did some practicing this Summer,” remarked Dutch, as he playfully dug his elbow into Tom’s ribs.
“We did. I’m anxious to get hold of an oar again. Have the new shells come?”
“I haven’t heard. We’ll inquire. I saw Mr. Lighton a bit ago.”
It was the opening of Randall College for the Fall term, and our friends, as well as their chums, had returned not only to lessons but to sports as well—cross-country running, football—ever glorious football—and now and chiefly, rowing, for the regatta was to be held before the big battles of the gridiron took place.
“Come on!” cried Tom, as he spied his three chums. “Let’s slip up to our room and talk things over.”
This was after a more or less hurried meal had been eaten.
“And we sure have lots to talk about,” remarked Sid. “But let’s get through with it and take a run up to Fairview. I guess——”
“You guess the girls are there—that’s what you guess!” interrupted Tom. “Hark to him, fellows. Isn’t he the limit!”
And then, linking arms, the four inseparables strolled across the campus, through groups of students, toward their room.
CHAPTER XXV
THE NEW SHELLS
“Say, aren’t they beauts!”
“All to the cream!”
“Nothing like ’em ever seen on this river before!”
“And look at the eight! Isn’t that a peach?”
“Easy there, Housenlager, that isn’t a ferry-boat!” and Jerry Jackson kept the big lad from stepping into the new eight-oared shell. The other exclamations, as may easily be surmised, came from the college lads as they gathered about the new float and boathouse, in front of which were the new craft that had been put in the water that day. It was a week or so after the opening of Randall, and matters were shaping themselves up in some kind of order.
“Two fours, four singles, two doubles and the eight!” remarked Tom. “Say, that committee of old grads certainly did themselves proud all right!”
“They sure did,” agreed Sid.
“And this boathouse can’t be beat!” added Phil, as he and the others inspected the new structure.
“I only hope that same thing applies to our boats,” remarked the Big Californian, grimly. “There’ll be something coming to us if they can’t be beaten.”
“Let’s get in and have a trial,” suggested Sid. “Come, we’ve got enough for two eights—one crew in the old shell and one in the new. We’ll find out if she’s stiff enough.”
“Better wait until Mr. Lighton gives the word,” suggested Tom. “They’ll want to soak up a bit, anyhow, being new; and our weight might open up the seams too much.”
In fact the boats had only been in the water since that morning, a committee of the rowing association superintending their removal from the freight station on trucks.
The letter announcing that they were on their way had been received some little time before, and the advent of the rowing craft was eagerly waited. Then had come a simple ceremony, when a committee of the presenting graduates had formally turned over the boathouse and outfit to Randall College.
“Well, we’ll have to organize soon, pick out a coxswain and captain, and arrange for hard training,” said Tom.
“Yes, there isn’t much time between now and the football season,” agreed Frank. “Boxer Hall and Fairview will want to wind up the rowing game as early as they can. It’s been a double drill for them, since they raced in the Spring. Next Spring we’ll get in the game with them.”
“Here comes Mr. Lighton,” suggested Sid. “Maybe he’ll have something to say,” and he indicated the coach coming down toward the boathouse.
“Well, boys, how do you like them?” asked Mr. Lighton, as he indicated the new craft.
“Swell!”
“Peachy!”
“Pippy!”
These were only a sample of the many expressions of approval.
“I guess I’ll slip in one of those singles and have a try at it,” remarked Boswell, starting for the dressing rooms to change into rowing costume.
“No, don’t, please—not just yet,” said Mr. Lighton. “I want to look them over first, to see if there are any flaws. You can take out one of the old ones.”
“Say, you don’t seem to want me to do anything in the boating line!” exclaimed the rich lad. “You shifted me out of the eight, and now you don’t want me to practice in a single. I tell you I know something about a boat—I’ve done as much work this Summer as those fellows,” and he indicated Tom and his three chums.
“That’s all right,” responded Mr. Lighton, quietly. “I’m not denying that, but I want you to understand that I did not shift you out of the eight without good reason, and there is still time for you to try to make good—even yet.”
“No, I’m going to stick to the single—and I’m going to win!” snapped Boswell.
“Good—I hope you do,” assented the coach. “Now, boys, we’ve got to get together, select a captain for the varsity, also the coxswain, as well as officials, and rowers for the other boats. It won’t do to go at this slip-shod fashion. What do you say to a meeting to-night to select the officials?”
“Good!” came the general cry, and then matters were talked over at length. As far as arrangements with Boxer Hall and Fairview were concerned, they had been practically completed in the Spring. All that remained was the selection of the day for the regatta, the marking of the course, the settlement of rules, which would be practically the same as those governing Boxer Hall and Fairview, and the selecting of the officials.
The other two colleges had very little to do to get ready for the races, but Randall had considerable. However, under the guidance of Mr. Lighton, affairs soon shaped up.
There was some wire-pulling in regard to the election of a varsity captain, but the choice eventually fell upon Frank Simpson, who pulled stroke. It met with general approval, for all liked the Big Californian, and no one who had been tried at stroke did anywhere nearly as well as did he. For coxswain the choice fell upon Jerry Jackson—in fact there was no opposition, for many who might have liked to try for it, felt that they were not equal to the responsibility. But Jerry seemed to fit in there naturally. He was just the right weight, Mr. Lighton said; he had a certain delicacy, yet firmness, in steering, and he could use judgment.
As for the singles, their disposition was simple. A number of lads signified their desire to enter into a competition among themselves, the best to be picked to meet Boxer Hall and Fairview contestants. Boswell was to be one who would enter the elimination trials, and he accepted the responsibility with an air of confidence that caused much secret amusement, and no little disgust. Snail Looper also expressed a desire to try, as did a number of others.
In the doubles a number of new lads, with whom we are not immediately concerned, entered, and as for the fours, some juniors and sophomores, together with a few freshmen, made up three combinations, the best one of which was to meet the rivals.
“As for the eight,” said Mr. Lighton, “which craft, in a measure will be regarded as the main varsity boat, we now have two crafts—the old one and the new. I suggest that there be elimination trials, and several friendly races between the two crews.
“In this way not only will you get practice, but you will have experience in pulling against another boat, which will stand you in good stead.
“I have also to announce that Mr. Pierson, whom some of you know as the old Cornell oarsman, has kindly consented to help me in coaching you. We will draw up a set of training rules, and I expect every man to follow them faithfully. Otherwise there is no use in going into this thing. Remember the condition of this magnificent gift to Randall was that she should prove herself a victor.”
“And she will!” cried Tom, while the others echoed his words.
There remained a few other preliminaries to arrange, and minor officials to select, and then the meeting of the athletic committee ended.
“Oh, I say!” cried Phil, at the conclusion. “I wonder if it’s too late to go see the girls?”
“Guess not,” agreed Tom. “I’m with you.”
“Same here,” echoed Frank and Phil, and they hurried to catch a trolley for Fairview Institute.
As they walked up the steps to the building where the young ladies were permitted to receive visitors, they saw a lad standing there. Just as Tom was about to ring the bell, the door opened, and a maid announced to the waiting lad:
“Miss Clinton can see no one.”
“She is out, do you mean?”
“I do not know. That was the message Miss Philock told me to give you.”
“Oh, all right,” and, turning so that the light from the hall shone on his face, the countenance of Boswell was disclosed to our friends.
“Oh!” he exclaimed blankly, as he recognized them. Then looking at Tom he added:
“Perhaps you’ll have better luck than I did, Parsons!”
“Perhaps,” admitted Tom, drily.
CHAPTER XXVI
“ROW HARD!”
The four chums watched Boswell go down the steps and get into a waiting auto, the maid, meanwhile, regarding them half curiously, for she knew them well, from frequent visits.
“Some class to him,” remarked Sid.
“Yes, he’s finding his way here all right,” added Tom.
“Well, it’s a free country,” added Phil. “He came to see Ruth, if I’m any judge.”
“And got turned down,” added Frank.
“I wonder if the girls are really out?” ventured Tom.
“I’ll see if the young ladies are in,” remarked the maid. She did not have to ask which young ladies were meant.
She returned shortly to say that, while it was almost too late for visitors, Miss Philock had consented that the four chums could see their friends for ten minutes.
“Say, what’s gotten into the old Ogress—she’s so pleasant to us?” Sid wanted to know.
“Probably this is the calm before the storm,” suggested Phil. “We may be turned down after this, the same as Boswell was.”
“I wonder what he wanted?” mused Tom.
“Oh, probably to ask the best way to darn socks without tying a string around the hole,” suggested Frank, with delicate sarcasm.
“Here come the girls!” exclaimed Tom, and the murmur of voices bore out his remark.
While the conversation that followed was probably of intense and absorbing personal interest to those who took part in it, there was not enough of general interest to warrant me setting it down here. Sufficient to say that all sorts of matters, from the coming regatta to the opening of the football season, were discussed, and commented upon. Needless to say the Fairview girls, with commendable loyalty, declared that their college was going to be the champions of the gridiron and river.
Tom found chance for a quiet word with Ruth just before the ringing of a warning bell announced that visiting hours were nearly over. She explained that it was a surprise to her when Boswell called, and she and her chums decided not to meet him.
“I haven’t found out anything more about your pin,” Tom said. “That is, I haven’t located it,” for he did not want to go into details about the missing pawnbroker and Mendez. Nothing more had been heard of either.
“Too bad,” Ruth declared. “I suppose, though, I might as well keep quiet about the loss of it until some one of my folks notice that it’s gone,” she said. “It will be time enough then to confess, though I suppose I’ll be in for a wigging from grandmother for keeping still about it so long.”
“Yes, it can’t do any harm to keep quiet now,” decided Tom, “and something may turn up at any minute.”
“Then you really have some hope, Tom?”
“Yes—a little,” he admitted. “But I can’t talk about it, Ruth. It involves others.”
“Oh, tell me Tom! I’ll keep it a secret!” she pleaded.
“No, really I can’t,” he said, and though she made it rather hard for him, he kept to his resolve.
“It is time your friends left, young ladies!” announced the rather rasping voice of Miss Philock, a little later. “I have been lenient with you to the extent of ten minutes, but now I must insist.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” exclaimed Phil, with a low bow. “We greatly appreciate it.”
“I am glad that you do,” declared the preceptress, not allowing a smile to change the hard contour of her face. Poor Miss Philock! Doubtless she did not have a happy time of it, and her responsibilities must have weighed on her. It is not an easy task to be the dragon, guarding a number of pretty girls, when two colleges for young men are not far off. And Miss Philock did her duty, however unpleasant it was.
Tom was awakened that night, shortly after one o’clock. At least he judged it to be about that hour, for he dimly recalled hearing a distant clock booming out twelve; then he had fallen into a doze, and it could not have been over an hour later when a noise and movement in the main apartment, out of which all their rooms opened, roused him.
“Wonder who that is?” he thought, sleepily. “Maybe we did a little too much to-day, and some of the boys can’t rest. I’ll take a look.”
He raised himself upon his elbow, but, though he had a partial view of the sitting room from that position, he could see no one. The scuffling of feet on the carpet, however, and the faint rattle of paper, told that someone was up and about.
Softly Tom put his legs over the edge of the bed, so that it would not creak, for, somehow, he had a faint suspicion that perhaps the person in the other room might not be one of his chums, and, in that case, he wanted to be prepared.
Gently he stepped out until he stood in the door of his own room, and had a view of the main apartment. Then he saw a white-robed figure standing looking out of the window that gave a view of the campus, over which a faint moon was then shining.
“That looks like Sid,” thought Tom. “I wonder if he’s getting spoony—or loony or moony? Maybe he couldn’t sleep and got up to change the current of his thoughts. Well, shall I go out and keep him company, or——”
Tom reconsidered the matter a moment.
“No,” he thought, “if I go out there, and we get to chinning, even in whispers, it will rouse Frank and Phil, and then we’ll all be wide awake. And the land knows we need all the sleep we can get. I can find my way to dreamland without being sung to, anyhow.”
For a moment he watched the figure by the window. It was Sid, Tom felt sure of that, though night-garments, be they pajamas or the more prosaic shirts, do not make for identifying individuals. There is little of character to them.
Then the figure by the window turned partly toward Tom, but, as the face was in the shadow, the watching lad could not see it plainly. The figure approached the table, on which was a litter of paper, where the lads had been doing some studying earlier in the evening.
“By Jove!” thought Tom. “Old Sid is writing poetry—or he has been courting the muse! This is rich! He can’t sleep and he gets up in the night to jot down a verse or two. That’s it! And about a girl, too, I’ll wager! Oh, Sid!” and he chuckled silently. “I’ll rig you for this in the morning! Loony, spoony, moony Sid! This is rich!” and Tom doubled up with silent mirth.
The figure continued to approach the table, and from the other rooms the deep, regular breathing told of sound sleepers. Then the figure began fumbling with papers and Tom saw a pencil taken up.
“How the mischief can he see to write in the dark?” the watcher wondered.
But that was evidently not the intention. For, after hesitating a few seconds over the table, the white-clad figure turned and went out of the door into the hall.
“Well, what do you make of that?” Tom asked himself. “He has got ’em bad! Sneaking out to some other room to write his slushy poetry. He’s the limit! Wait until we get at him in the daylight—there won’t be any loony-moon then. But I should think he’d want to put on a bath robe. It isn’t the warmest night of Summer,” added Tom to himself, being aware of a distinctly chilly feeling about his legs.
“Wait!” he counseled with himself. “I’ll find out about this. I’ll just follow him and give him a scare. I’ll catch him with the goods.”
Pausing to make sure that none of the others were awake, and waiting to give Sid a chance to get a little way down the corridor, Tom slipped out of the door, his feet encased in a pair of bath slippers, that lent themselves better to soft movement than not, for they avoided the scuffling that always goes with bare soles.
Tom reached the corridor, and, looking down it, saw at the farther end the white-robed figure.
“He made good time all right,” Tom mused. “Where can he be going to though, in that rig? Oh, probably to the reading room,” and Tom recalled the large room at the end of the hall, a sort of library fitted up for the use of the dwellers of the dormitory—a room seldom used by the way, for the lads preferred the seclusion of their own apartments.
“Maybe he’s looking for a rhyming dictionary,” thought Tom. “That’s it. I’m on to his game now.”
Tom thought he understood it all. Sid, who used to care nothing for the girls—indeed having a veritable aversion for them—had, of late, been quite different, as Tom and all the others saw and knew. There was one in particular—and it would not be fair for me to mention her name—one in particular about whom Sid, if he did not talk, thought much.
“And he’s going to finish out some poem he began, and got stuck with,” decided Tom. “Probably he knows we’d rig him if we saw him writing that Valentine stuff.
“A rhyming dictionary though. I don’t see what he needs of that. Love, dove, above—you true—eyes of blue. Heart—part—die, sigh—moon—soon—spoon—no, not that. But hair—fair—ever there—thine—mine—valentine. There you are, done without the aid of a net, and with nothing concealed up my sleeve,” mused Tom, shivering slightly as a chilling breeze from the corridor not only crept up his arm, but over other parts of his anatomy.
The figure ahead of him glided on, and Tom followed. Then, instead of turning into the library, it mounted a flight of stairs that led to the rooms above, where other students slept.
“For cats’ sake!” thought Tom. “What is Sid up to anyhow? Is he going to snare someone else in on this game? Or is he playing some trick? The bell in the tower! Jove, if he dares to ring that at this hour!”
For, when the new dormitory had been built, a bell had been hung in an ornate corner tower, though it pealed forth but seldom, being more of an ornament. Still it could be rung if desired.
“That’s what old Sid is up to!” decided Tom. “He must be going daffy. He’s sure to be caught, for Simond has a room up there, and he’s a light sleeper.” Simond being one of the new teachers, who had been assigned to this dormitory as a sort of moral-policeman. He was, however, a well-liked instructor.
“I wonder how it would be for me to tip Sid off not to do it?” thought Tom. “If he does jingle the chimes they’ll say we all had a hand in it, and it will be bad for the bunch. I guess I’ll call him off. No use going too far for a joke.”
Tom was about to sprint forward, when, to his surprise, the figure turned and entered one of the student’s rooms, the door opening noiselessly and closing again as silently.
“Well, what do you know about that?” asked Tom of himself. “Who rooms there, I wonder? And what is Sid going in there for? Can it be that he isn’t up to dashing off a fervid love poem himself, and has to get someone else, under the cover of night, to do it for him?”
Tom came to a halt, some distance from the door that had opened and closed, and remained gazing down the corridor. He seldom came up here, and did not know which students occupied the different rooms. And, as the corridor was long, and as Tom was looking down it on an angle, he could not be exactly sure which door had opened, they being all alike, and many without numbers.
“I’ll just stay here and wait,” he decided. “He can’t stay in there very long,” and then Tom began to wish he had slipped on his bath robe, for he was getting more and more chilly each minute.
“Hang it all! Why doesn’t he come out?” he asked himself half a dozen times. “I’m not going to stay here all night.”
But even at that, while calling himself all sorts of a foolish person, Tom remained.
“It’s too good a joke to pass up!” he decided. “I’ll surprise Sid when he comes out. Poetry! Bah! We’ll write a love verse for him!”
Several minutes passed. Tom moved about, and began to do some exercises with his arms, to bring up his circulation. He was striking out vigorously, feeling in quite a glow, when his elbow, as he drew back his arm, came in sharp contact with the door behind him. Unaware of it, he had been standing in front of some portal while he waited.
“Oh, for cats’ sake!” thought Tom, in grim despair as the sound boomed out with startling distinctness in that dim and silent corridor. “Now I have gone and done it. I guess I’d better pass up Sid and his poem, and get back to my little bed. I wonder if I can make it before someone sticks out his noddle, and wants to know what I’m doing here?”