“Hush, not so loud! I gave it to a jeweler, a Mr. Farson, in Haddonfield, to repair the clasp, and I just got word from him to-day that it was taken. So I had to buy another pin to fasten my collar with, and I’m so afraid Phil will notice it; or that grandmother may hear about it! She’ll say I’m careless.”
“Did Farson have your brooch?” cried Tom.
“Yes. Why?”
“And did he tell you how it was taken?”
“Well, he said it was taken with a lot of other things that he had collected from his customers to repair. He offered to get me another, but of course I never can get one like that.”
“Say!” exclaimed Tom, greatly excited. “Your pin must have been in that box he left in his motor-boat, when the craft was wrecked on Crest Island and when the Boxer Hall cups were taken. By Jove! This brings that robbery home to me all right!” and Tom looked strangely at Ruth.
“What do you mean?” cried the girl, impressed by Tom’s strange manner.
“Why, didn’t you hear? This jeweler had been going about collecting work for repairing, and left a lot of it in a box in his boat. Then he was called away suddenly, and remained away over night. A flood came up, swept his boat away, wrecked it on Crest Island, and we four fellows found it there. But the jewelry case was empty. Didn’t you hear that—and about the Boxer Hall cups?”
“I believe I did,” answered Ruth, slowly. “But I did not know then, that my brooch was in that box. Oh, Tom, do you suppose it could be on Crest Island?”
“I don’t know, Ruth. The box was empty when we found it, and we think someone located it before we did, and rifled it.”
“Oh, Tom, my dear pin! If grandmother hears I’ve lost it she’ll never forgive me—and then her pearls, too; not that I care so much about them, but this pin was given her by her husband, when they were courting, and she thought the world of it. It was made abroad, of a peculiar pattern, and never could be replaced. It was an heirloom, and she must have thought a lot of me to let me take it.
“Oh, I just can’t bear to tell her it is gone! Maybe we can find it. Perhaps it is on the island yet. Maybe it dropped from the box. Tell me; was Phil along when you found the box?”
“Yes, but of course he didn’t know that anything of yours was in it.”
“Then please don’t tell him. He might think I ought to tell grandmother about it—he’s so peculiar. And I will tell her, if worse comes to worst, and I can’t get it back. But, oh, Tom! do you suppose it could be on the island?” and she looked eagerly at him.
“If it’s there I’ll find it!” declared the tall pitcher, perhaps with more zeal than discretion.
“And don’t you tell a soul!”
“I won’t,” he promised.
“Could you take me with you, Tom? I’d like to help you hunt for it.”
“Of course,” he said, promptly. “The weather is getting fine now. We’ll row over to the island some day, and make a search. But that pin isn’t going to be easy to find.”
“No, I realize that, Tom. But it will make me feel better to help look for it. Oh, how careless of that jeweler to leave his things in the boat!”
“It was, in a way, but he could not tell he was going to be summoned away, nor that the flood would come. I feel sorry for him.”
“So do I, but—I want my brooch back,” and Ruth smiled at Tom. “Now don’t say anything, and don’t notice my new pin—at least in front of Phil,” she stipulated. “If I can get the old one back, then it will be time enough to tell him. Oh, here he comes now, with Madge. Yes, I think the dance will be perfectly fine!” exclaimed Ruth, in loud tones, to change the conversation for the benefit of her brother and Madge. Tom took his cue instantly, and the four were soon engaged in a lively conversation, Ruth, meanwhile, telegraphing signals to Tom with her eyes, while she arranged a bit of her lace collar over the new pin, so that her brother would not notice it.
Plans for the dance being duly made, the boys took a regretful departure. But it was high time, for Miss Philock sent one of the teachers to Ruth and the girls, to tell them that visiting hours were over.
“Until the next time!” called the girls, as the boys walked off.
“And, Tom,” whispered Ruth, “don’t forget.”
“I’ll not!” he promised.
“Hello, what’s up between you and Sis?” asked Phil, quickly.
“Oh, we’re just arranging a little expedition,” was the answer of his chum.
But Tom could not carry out his plan of taking the girl to Crest Island the next day. It rained, and baseball practice was ordered in the cage at the gymnasium.
As I do not, in this book, intend to devote much space to baseball at Randall (seeing that I have fully discussed several games in other books of this series), it is sufficient to say that all of our friends played on the varsity nine, together with some new students, and that Randall bade fair to win the championship at this time. Which she later did, though not without hard work.
Then came several days of practice in the eight-oared shell, and in the four, the double, and singles, which had, in the meanwhile, been received. There was much enthusiasm, and Mr. Lighton had to press in as coaches some post-graduate students who knew rowing fairly well. But he himself gave his time to the eight. A number of other lads had been tried in it, and among those who had taken the first practice spin several shifts in position were made.
But at last a fine, warm, sunny Spring day came, and Tom, after an early lecture one afternoon, arrayed himself in a costume suitable for rowing, and, with some cushions under his arm, set off for the boathouse.
“Whither away?” asked Phil, as he surveyed his chum.
“Oh, out for a row,” and Tom strove to make his voice indifferent.
“With cushions; eh? Want any company?”
“No, thanks, old man. No offense, of course,” he hastened to add, “but——”
“None taken!” exclaimed Phil. “Guess I’ll go get a girl myself.”
As Tom neared the boathouse he met Sid and Frank.
“Want me to pull an oar?” asked the former, as he saw the tall pitcher.
“No. I can manage,” and Tom proceeded to get out a light boat.
“I say, old man,” put in Frank, with a wink at Sid. “Lend me one of those cushions; will you. I’m going——”
“You’re going to get one of your own!” interrupted Tom. “I need these.”
“You mean the lady does,” added Sid, with a laugh. “Go on, you old deserter. We’ll be going out in the shell, later.”
“Will you?” exclaimed Tom. “I wonder if I’d better—Oh, go and be hanged to you!” he added. “I’ll get practice enough,” and he got into the boat and rowed away.
“Wonder where he’s going?” spoke Frank.
“Give it up,” replied Sid. “Let’s find Phil, and get ready for a spin.”
Meanwhile Tom made good time to Fairview, and found Ruth awaiting him, he having previously telephoned to her to be in readiness.
“Oh, Tom, I wonder if we will have any luck?” she exclaimed, as they set off, her three girl chums watching her curiously.
“I hope so,” he answered, “but, really, I can’t hold out much. A brooch is so small, and Crest Island is rather large. But we’ll look near the place where the box lodged. The pin may still be there.”
It was not a short row to Crest Island, but Tom did not mind it. Indeed he was rather sorry when the place was reached.
He lost no time in proceeding to the spot where he and his chums had picked up the jewelry box. The place seemed just the same, with no evidence of any other visitors. It was rather early for the Summer crowds to come, and none of the several cottages had opened.
The two spent some time in making a careful search, beginning at the point where the wrecked boat had been found, and working along both shores—that is, after a search at the spot where the box had been picked up. But no brooch rewarded their efforts.
“I guess you’ll have to wait until the other things are located,” said Tom. “Your pin may be among them.”
“Let’s walk on a little farther,” proposed Ruth. “I want to look at Madge Tyler’s cottage.”
“Has Madge a cottage here?” asked the lad, in surprise.
“Her people have taken one for the Summer. Madge has invited us girls to spend several weeks with her. Where are you boys going this vacation?”
“To Crest Island!” replied Tom promptly, though, a moment before, he had had not the slightest idea.
“Oh, you’re just saying that!” challenged Ruth.
“No, really I’m not!” he insisted. “If you girls are going to cottage here, I don’t see why we can’t camp. Other fellows do.”
“Oh, it would be nice, of course,” she admitted, as they strolled along. “There’s the Tyler place,” called Ruth a little later. “I recognize the description. Isn’t it lovely?”
“Fine!” agreed Tom. “And that looks like a good camping place,” and he indicated a spot not far off.
They soon gave up looking for the lost brooch, which, as Ruth said, was like searching for a needle in a haystack. They strolled some distance on the island, admiring the Summer cottages that would soon be open, and then turned back.
Not far from the spot where Tom and his chums had found the rifled jewelry box Tom saw a sort of shack, or small hut, off between the trees.
“I wonder whose that is?” he ventured. “Let’s go take a look.”
“It doesn’t seem very inviting,” returned Ruth. “Perhaps some boatmen live there.”
The shack was deserted, but a look through the grimy windows showed that it probably had an occupant, for there were some dishes on a table, some pans on a rusty stove, and, in through another room, could be seen some bunks.
“Probably a caretaker for the cottages,” suggested Ruth, as she rested her hand on a window-sill, and idly pulled out some threads that had caught in a splinter. “Rather a strange sort of caretaker,” she went on, “who wears silk—see, these are silk threads,” and she held up a number, brightly colored.
“Where did you get those?” asked Tom, and the girl started at the strange note in his voice.
“On the window sill,” she explained. “Why?”
“Oh—nothing,” was his answer, but she noted that he took the threads from her, and carefully put them in a card case. “They might do to make a fishing fly with,” he explained, after a pause.
“Oh,” she said.
They strolled around to the front door of the building to find it locked.
“There’s someone’s card,” remarked Ruth, as she touched a bit of pasteboard with the toe of her shoe. “Maybe it was on the door, telling at what hour the person who lives here would return.”
“Maybe,” agreed Tom, stooping to pick it up. “I’ll fasten it back again. I wonder who does live here?”
Idly he turned the card over. Then he started in surprise, for the name that met his eyes was:
Reginald Boswell
“Who is it?” asked Ruth. “Anyone I know?”
“I—I fancy not,” answered Tom, still staring at the card. “I wonder how that got here?” he mused. “And I wonder who lives in this shack?” and putting the bit of pasteboard in his pocket, he swung around.
“I guess we’d better be getting back,” he said to Ruth. “It’s getting late, and it’s a bit of a pull. I’m sorry we couldn’t find your brooch.”
“So am I,” she admitted, with a sigh. “But it can’t be helped. Oh, how can I tell grandmother?”
She took Tom’s arm, as the way was rough. They had not gone many feet before they heard someone approaching, tramping through the underbrush.
“Who can that be?” asked the girl.
“I don’t know—we’ll look,” whispered Tom.
“Who are you—what you do here?”
The question was snapped out at Tom and Ruth as they stood near the shack. A man had come to an abrupt halt as he emerged from the bushes and faced them; something of fear, Tom thought, mingled with anger showing on his face. It was this man whom they had heard approaching, a man clad in ordinary garments, yet with an indefinable foreign air about him—an air that was accentuated by his words and inflection. He was dark of skin, swarthy, and when he smiled, which he did a moment after his rather harsh words of greeting, his very white teeth showed beneath a small black moustache. A Spaniard Tom put him down for, or a Mexican. The latter guess proved correct, as the lad learned afterward.
“You come here to—to—pardon, senor, I am forgetting my manners,” went on the fellow with a bow, and a sharp glance at Ruth. “You are here perhaps to look at cottages—you and your charming bride.”
Ruth drew in her breath sharply, and a rosy glow suffused her face. She did not look at Tom, who chuckled audibly.
“I—I’ll never speak to you if you do that again,” said the girl, in a low voice.
“Do what?” asked Tom, innocently enough.
“Laugh at—at what he said,” and she still blushed, and refused to look up.
“Pardon, senor,” went on the man. “No offense, but——”
“That’s all right,” said Tom easily, master of himself now, but wondering much who the man might be. “We were just looking around. Some friends of ours have a cottage here—the Tylers——”
“Oh, yes. Then you are very welcome. In fact you would be welcome anyhow, as this island is more or less of the public—what you say, I have not the very good English?” and he looked questioningly at them.
“Oh, you mean that it is open to the public.”
“That is so, yes, senor, and senorita. You are interested in my poor abode here—yes?”
“Oh, we were just looking around,” explained Tom. “We did peep in. No harm, I hope.”
“None at all, senor.”
“I’m from Randall,” the pitcher went on. “Miss Clinton is from Fairview.”
“Oh, you are fellow students then?”
“Not exactly—say, rather—rivals,” and Tom looked at Ruth and laughed. The blush had somewhat subsided.
“Ah, I comprehend. I am Rafello Mendez, at your service, senor.”
“My name is Parsons,” went on Tom. “Sorry I haven’t a card,” and he thought of the one he had picked up, which he had quickly thrust into his pocket at the sound of approaching footsteps.
“I am what you call the take-care man around here,” went on Mendez. “I am the take-care man of the cottages—not all—some.”
“The ‘take-care’ man,” murmured Tom. “It sounds like the bugaboo-man.”
“Oh, he means the care-taker,” exclaimed Ruth. “I understand. You look after the property while the cottagers are away; isn’t that it?” and she smiled at the man, who bowed low and answered:
“The senorita has said it. I am the take-care man.”
“But I thought old Jake Blasdell had that job,” said Tom. “I know he used to be here. But I never knew he had this shack, though I haven’t been much on this part of the island.”
“Senor Blasdell did was the take-care man,” explained Mendez. “But he was took sick, and had to leave, and a friend got me the place. Me, I used to be of the sheep take-care in my country—Mexico, but I long for this country and I come. I do what you call a business on the edge.”
“On the edge?” murmured Tom.
“Yes, senor, on the edge. Or maybe you say on the point. You see he is like this: I am the take-care man for the cottages in place of Senor Blasdell in Winter. In Summer I am the cut-the-grass-man or the garden-man, what you like. Then, besides, in addition, on the edge I sell things in my store which it is unfortunately not open now, or I should show the senorita some pretty things. The store I do on the edge—or maybe on the point, I know not how you say,” and he shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“Oh, he means on the side!” cried Ruth. “Don’t you understand, Tom? He is a caretaker, and at odd times he sells things to the Summer cottagers.”
“The senorita has said it,” went on Mendez. “It is on the side, not on the edge—pardon!”
“What do you sell?” asked Tom, curiously.
“Everything. Things from the country. Of a specialty I have the beautiful Mexican push-work, senorita.”
“Push-work, that’s another new one,” said Tom.
“I guess he means Mexican drawn-work,” explained Ruth with a smile. “Some of it is very beautiful. He ought to do a good business here in the Summer.”
“I should, if I had all customers like the senorita,” said the man with a bow to Ruth, again showing his white teeth in an expansive smile. “I am covered with confusion that I can show her none now. But it is all put away. Perhaps, though, if you wait——”
“No, we must be moving on!” interrupted Tom. “It is getting late. And so you live here all Winter?”
“Yes, senor. This little hut was part of the place where Senor Blasdell used to stay. It was donated to me. I moved it here when I succeeded Senor Blasdell, and added to it. It is very comfortable. I have been over to the main land for some supplies, and when I come back I see you. At first I am suspicious, for which I ask your pardon. You are always welcome, the senor and senorita,” and again he bowed.
“Thanks, Mr. Mendez,” said Tom, rather carelessly, for somehow he did not like the fellow. “We may see you this Summer. Some of us fellows may camp here.”
“Then I shall be pleased to show you some fine Mexican leather work. Perhaps a lariat, spurs, bridles, and some fine silver work for the pretty senoritas, is it not?” and the fellow smiled genially.
“Good-bye!” called Tom. “Come along, Ruth. I’ll have to hit up the oars going home or I’ll have you so late that you’ll get on the bad books of the Ogress.”
“Oh, I’m there already,” she replied, as she nodded to the Mexican, who bowed low in farewell. “All our crowd is, but we don’t mind. Now, Tom, did you really mean what you said about going to camp on Crest Island this Summer?”
“I do, if I can get the other fellows to do it. I know they will, too, for we’ll be near our rowing shells, and we can have the best kind of practice.”
“Oh, is that the only reason you want to come here?” and she looked archly at him.
“Why, isn’t that——” he began and then a light dawned on him.
“I guess we wouldn’t come if you girls weren’t to be here,” he added, quickly. “When I tell the fellows that, I know it will cinch matters. Oh, we’ll come all right.”
They reached their boat, embarked, and Tom was soon sculling away from the island.
“Queer chap—that Mendez,” remarked the youth after a bit.
“Isn’t he?” agreed Ruth.
“I didn’t know those Mexicans were so thrifty,” the rower went on. “Being a ‘care-take’ man and doing Mexican ‘push-work’ on the ‘edge’. Pretty good; eh?”
“Yes,” laughed Ruth. “I can see where we girls will spend a great deal of our time this Summer.”
“So can I,” declared her companion, boldly. “With us fellows.”
“Oh, you’re not at all conceited; are you?”
“I didn’t know it,” went on Tom, tantalizingly. “But say, do you know I didn’t much like that fellow, for all his fine airs.”
“Why not, pray? I thought him quite polite.”
“He was—altogether too polite,” murmured the lad, with a little more force than seemed necessary. “I don’t like foreigners, anyhow.”
“Well, I could forgive anyone, even a foreigner, if I could get back my brooch,” sighed Ruth. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about it.”
“It is too bad,” agreed Tom. “Now, Ruth, we won’t say anything about what happened to-day, and if you promise not to tell, I’ll whisper a secret.”
“Oh, Tom, of course I won’t tell—you know that!” and she looked reproachfully at him.
“Of course—I was only joking. Well, we four fellows are trying to do a little detective work, and recover the stolen jewelry.”
“You are?”
“Yes, and if we do we may get back your brooch.”
“Oh, I hope you do!” and she clapped her hands in spontaneous delight. “Do you think you will, Tom?”
“Hard to tell, Ruth. There aren’t many clues to work on. At least there weren’t until to-day——”
“Oh, did you find some to-day, Tom? Tell me, I’m so fascinated with detective work! Did you really see some clue that escaped me?”
“Ahem! Detectives never talk about their cases, or tell about their clues!” he exclaimed, with exaggerated gravity.
“Tom Parsons!”
“Well, really, I don’t know whether I did find a clue or not, Ruth. I’m going to think about it over night. If you can help me I won’t hesitate to call on you.”
“Will you, really, Tom? That’s good of you. And now I’m afraid you’ll have to row a little faster. It is getting quite late.”
“All right,” agreed the lad, as he bent to the oars. As he rowed his thoughts went to the card in his pocket and to the strands of silk from the gay handkerchief.
Fortunately Ruth was not so late that Miss Philock found fault. Tom proved himself a good rower, though after he had said good-bye he took the course easy on the way to Randall.
“Some sculling,” he told himself, as he tied up the boat and, in the dusk of the late Spring evening, walked toward his room. “This ought to stand me in good stead for the eight. My muscles are hardening,” and he felt of his biceps. He was in extraordinarily good training from his baseball work.
As he was about to enter the building where he and his chums had their rooms, he saw Boswell approaching. Tom’s mind flashed to the card he had picked up at the shack.
“I wonder what he could have been doing there?” the tall pitcher mused. “If Mendez didn’t have his store open and his stock ready for sale, how could Bossy have bought any? And, if he didn’t go there to buy anything, why did he go at all? I give it up.”
There was no time for further speculation just then, as the rich lad, with a nod, addressed Tom.
“Where were you?” he asked with an air of familiarity that Tom rather resented in a Freshman. “We had a fine row in the eight. I’m almost sure of bow, and Lighton may shift me to stroke, or number seven.”
“Yes?” questioned Tom indifferently, yet resolving to make a brave struggle not to let this usurper put him out of his place in the boat.
“Sure thing. I’m coming on fine, and I’ve got a dandy scheme for keeping in trim this Summer.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. Our folks are going to take a cottage on Crest Island, and——”
“You are?” and Tom fairly exploded the words.
“Surest thing you know, though it’s a beastly slow and unfashionable place. We usually go to the shore. We have one cottage there, and another in the White Mountains, but I persuaded dad to take one at Crest for the Summer, just so I could be near the water here and get familiar with the course we’ll row next Fall. Nothing like knowing the course, old man, really.”
“No, I suppose not,” and Tom’s mind was busy with many things. With Boswell on the island, matters might not be so pleasant as he had anticipated.
“That’s right. I’m going to get a professional coach, too.”
“You are?” Tom’s voice was still indifferent, but Boswell did not notice it.
“Sure thing. When I go in for a thing I go in hard, and I’m going into this rowing game for keeps.”
“Well, I hope we all do,” and Tom tried to be pleasant as he turned away.
“See you later,” murmured the Freshman, in a patronizing tone, and, as he turned aside he drew from his pocket a gaudy handkerchief. At the sight of it Tom stared, for it was the same pattern as the strip of silk found near the looted jewelry box. Tom stared at it intently as the rich lad flourished it.
“By Jove!” suddenly exclaimed Boswell, “I’ve got that torn handkerchief again,” and he held it up, showing where a strip had evidently been ripped from it. “I’ve got two,” he explained, “and this one got torn the other day. I thought I laid it aside, but, in my hurry, I must have grabbed it up.”
“How—how’d you tear it?” asked Tom, when he could trust his voice.
“Oh, it caught on a nail down at the boathouse, and a piece was ripped off.”
“Why—why couldn’t you have it sewed on?” asked Tom.
“What? Carry a mended handkerchief? I guess not. Anyhow the piece fell in the water and floated away. Hope you’ll be in the eight next time we practice, though I may get your place.”
“Maybe,” answered Tom, and he did not take the trouble to designate which clause the word modified.
“Say, where in the name of Diogenes’s lantern have you been, Tom?”
“Yes, come in you musty old deserter, and give an account of yourself. You’ve been away so long that you must have forgotten the counter-sign.”
“It was a girl, fellows—I can smell the perfumery!”
Thus Sid, Phil and Frank greeted the advent of our hero into the common room, soon after he had left Boswell. Tom’s brain had been so busy with so many thoughts, after the sight of that torn handkerchief, that he had eaten scarcely any supper, though his appetite just before that had been of the best.
“Shove over; can’t you?” was all Tom said to Phil, who was stretched out on the old sofa.
“Sure I can. What’s the matter? Got a grouch!”
“No, but I’m dead tired.”
“Be careful how you flop,” warned Sid, as he watched with anxiety Tom’s preparations to sit down. “That sofa doesn’t gain strength with age—it isn’t like cheese in that respect.”
“Where were you?” asked Phil, as Tom managed to find a resting place without bringing forth from the sofa more than a protesting groan, and a series of squeaks.
“Ruth and I were out for a row,” said Tom shortly, knowing that the truth would out sooner or later, and having nothing to conceal.
“Oh, ho!” exclaimed Sid.
“Where’d you go?” asked Phil, with brotherly interest.
“Crest Island. That’s what kept me so long. I got her home in good season though, and rowed slow the rest of the way.”
“Crest Island!” exclaimed Frank. “Did you find any more clues, Tom?”
The tall pitcher hesitated. He was in two minds about what had taken place that afternoon. Should he tell his chums the secret he thought he had discovered, and get their opinions in working it out? Or should he play a lone hand? A moment’s thought convinced him. He would tell all—that is, all save Ruth’s secret. That he had no right to divulge.
“Well?” asked Frank, as his chum hesitated. “Did you find anything, Tom?”
“I sure did, fellows,” and he tossed on the table the card of Boswell, and the strands of silk.
For a moment no one spoke, and then Sid, picking up the card remarked:
“This looks suspicious, Tom. Did you and Bossy quarrel over a girl, and go to Crest Island to have a duel? It begins to look that way—exchanging cards and all that.”
“We didn’t exchange cards,” said Tom shortly. “I found that card near a shack where a caretaker lives. And, by the way, fellows, we’re going to camp on Crest Island this Summer.”
“We are?” cried Phil.
“I like the nice, easy way he has of laying out our vacation plans for us,” remarked Sid.
“Just as if he was our manager,” added Frank.
“Well, I only thought it would be handy if we want to practice rowing,” went on Tom, holding back the other reason. “We could get a boat, and drop down to college here every day or so, take out the shell and have a spin. If we want to beat Boxer Hall we’ve got to do some tall hustling, and practice like all get-out!”
“Oh, I fancy I can practice rowing on Crystal Lake, where our folks intend taking a cottage,” said Sid. “No Crest Island for mine!”
“The girls are going to cottage there,” went on Tom, with a fine appearance of indifference. “Madge Tyler’s folks have a neat little shack there, and Ruth, Helen and Mabel are going to spend some time with her.”
“They are!” cried Frank.
“Why didn’t you say so at first?” asked Sid, indignantly.
“I—er—I guess I can fix it to camp there,” spoke Phil, just as if he had never intended spending his vacation at any other place.
“Oh, you fellows were so sure you knew your own business that I didn’t want to butt in,” went on the pitcher. “But, boys, what do you think of that?” and he indicated the card and silk.
“It’s the same material,” spoke Frank after a bit, as he compared the shreds Tom had pulled from the window-sill of the shack on the island, with the torn strip found near the looted jewelry box.
“And what would you say if I told you that Bossy had a handkerchief of that same pattern, with a strip torn off?” asked Tom, slowly.
“Has he?” asked Frank, looking sharply at his chum.
“He has.”
“Then, by crimps! He’s the fellow who has the cups and jewelry!” cried Sid.
“Go easy,” advised Phil. “That’s the worst of you—always jumping to conclusions.”
“And why shouldn’t I, when I can land on ’em as easily as I can on this one? Isn’t it as plain as can be?”
“Not altogether. We’d make fine specimens of ourselves if we went and accused him on this evidence. You say, Tom, that you found this card near the Mexican’s shack?”
“Yes. And the shreds of silk there, too. It looks to me as if Bossy had been there to buy a handkerchief. Two of ’em, if we’re to believe him. The Mexican probably has them as well as his ‘push-work’ as he calls it,” and he told all the circumstances of the visit to the island, omitting only the search for Ruth’s brooch.
“I guess that part is right,” admitted Frank. “I mean about Bossy going there to buy one of these gay handkerchiefs. But just because he did doesn’t make him guilty. In fact, what object would he have in taking some trophy cups that he could get very little for if they were melted up, and nothing for, if he tried to sell them as they were? No one would buy them, for on the face of them they show what they are. Some were engraved with the Boxer Hall fellows’ names. And the other jewelry wasn’t so very valuable. Bossy wouldn’t have any object in taking that. He’s got more money now, than is good for him.”
“He might have been gambling, and gotten short of cash, and been afraid of asking his folks,” suggested Sid, remembering an ordeal he had gone through in having a relative under similar circumstances, as I related in “Batting to Win.”
“I don’t believe it,” declared Frank. “To my mind I’d sooner suspect this Mendez. He seems a fishy sort of character.”
“Oh, I think he’s straight,” declared Tom. “I made some inquiries about him while I was having grub. It seems some of the fellows here have been buying stuff of him—last year when he was traveling around the country. He bears a good reputation, and Hendell’s father, who owns part of Crest Island, was telling me that the property owners looked up his record well before they let him succeed old Jake Blasdell as caretaker.”
“Hum!” mused Frank. “It doesn’t look as easy as it did at first, in spite of these clues, Tom.”
“That’s right. Say, I’m not as much of a detective as I thought. I wonder if that jeweler could be double-crossing us?”
“What do you mean?” asked Sid.
“I mean could he have lost the box of jewelry overboard before his boat was carried away by the flood? If he did, he could make up the story that he left it in the locker, and that someone else got it when the boat was wrecked.”
“That’s possible, though not probable,” admitted Frank. “Fellows, my advice is that we put these things away, and forget all about them to-night. In the morning we may see matters clearer. I’ve got to do some boning anyhow. Put ’em away, Tom.”
Soon only the ticking of the fussy, little alarm clock was heard, mingled with the rattle of paper as books were leafed or as the lads wrote out their lessons. Even the clock stopped after a bit, and the sudden silence was so startling that Phil exclaimed:
“She’s run down! Hope nothing’s the matter with her,” and he picked up the timepiece with an anxious face.
“Probably got toothpickitis,” suggested Tom. “Give it a shake.”
Phil did so, with the result that a piece of toothpick did fall out, and then the clock went on ticking again.
“That’s better,” sighed Phil, though often he had objected to the incessant noise. “It would be like losing an old friend if that went back on us.”
He settled into the depths of one of the old armchairs, Sid being in another, while Frank, who had succeeded to the sofa stretched out luxuriously on that, having ousted Tom, who, on a stool drawn up to the table, was making an ancient war map that was to be used in class the next day.
Morning brought no clearer view to the puzzling problem of the clues to the missing jewelry, and, having all agreed to keep silent about the matter, the lads laid aside the articles and hurried to chapel. In the several days that followed nothing new in that line developed.
There came several baseball contests, in which Tom and his chums distinguished themselves. The long vacation was approaching, and more or less “boning” had to be done if the lads intended to pass their examinations. All these things, with the rowing practice, kept them busy so that Tom, as was the case with the others, had little chance to see the girls.
The other second-hand rowing craft were made good use of, and those who were to go in the four were practically picked. So were the singles and doubles, though of course a change might be made in the Fall, when new material would come to Randall.
All eyes, and most of the interest, however, was on and in the eight. On this Randall built her hopes of becoming champion of the river and lake league. Though when word came of the fast time made by Boxer Hall and Fairview in their practice spins, there were doubtful shakes of the head, for Randall was nowhere near as good.
Then came the annual Boxer Hall-Fairview races. It was about an even thing between the two colleges, until it came time for the eight-oared contest. There was even a tub race, and the boys at Randall decided to have one when it came time for them to take part in the regatta.
But Boxer won the eight with ease over Fairview, and when Mr. Lighton, who with most of those who had practiced in Randall’s big shell, witnessed the exciting finish, he shook his head.
“We’ve got to do some tall hustling,” he remarked, “and make some changes. I’ll start in on them to-morrow.”
There was a larger number than usual at practice on Sunny River the next day. All Randall seemed to be at the boathouse. Adjoining the old one a start had already been made on erecting the new structure, presented by the alumni. Word had been received that the new shells would be ready in ample time for the Fall races.
“Young men!” exclaimed Coach Lighton, as the eight was slipped into the water, “I’m going to make some radical changes in the crew, and I want none of you to feel sore, because, you know, it is for the good of the college. We have not been rowing well, of late, and there are several faults to correct. The boat hangs a bit, and is a trifle heavy by the stern. She drags. I know one reason for this, it is my own weight, and so I am going to suggest that you now try one of yourselves as coxswain. I am a little too ‘beefy’ for the place.
“Jerry Jackson, you take the tiller ropes. You’ve had more practice than any of the others, and you’re too light to hope to be at the oars.”
“All right,” agreed Jerry, cheerfully. After all it was an honor to steer the eight.
“Simpson, you’ll stay at stroke, and, Parsons, I’m going to send you back a bit. No offense, but you’re not quite quick enough in picking up the stroke. I think it’s your baseball arm that’s at fault. Molloy, you take Parsons’ place, and Tom will go number three. From three, Henderson will go to bow. He’s about the right weight for there when we get Jackson in as coxswain. And, Jerry, you’ll want to shift your seat a bit aft, to make up for the extra weight they’ve been carrying in me. That will make a good change, I think.”
There was some murmuring over the changes, and obviously nearly all were pleased. Molloy especially, for he had been fretting lest he be kept out of the eight. As for Tom he was rather glad, on the whole, that he did not have the responsibility of picking up Frank’s stroke, for it was a responsibility, and it was telling on him. He had begun to realize that his baseball pitching had made him a bit awkward in one arm.
“Say, where do I come in?” suddenly asked Boswell. “I was at bow, and now—I’m nowhere, Mr. Lighton.”
“I’ll work you in another crew, Boswell,” said the coach, sharply.
“But I want to be in the varsity.”
“This isn’t the varsity any more than any other collection of eight rowers is. The varsity isn’t picked yet, and won’t be until the Fall.”
“Well, this looks very much like the varsity to me,” sneered Boswell. “All the fellows in it are on the varsity nine——”
“That’ll do you!” said the coach, snappily.
“Then I’m not to row at bow?”
“Not in this eight.”
“Then I don’t row at all!” and, with a fierce glance at the selected rowers, the rich lad turned sharply and walked off to the dressing rooms.
“The first break,” murmured Tom.
“Take your places,” spoke the coach, quietly. “I’m going to follow you in the launch. Jackson, make ’em do as you tell ’em!”
There was a small motor-boat, the property of the rowing association at Randall, having been acquired since the new interest in racing, and several times Mr. Lighton had used it to coach the lads in the fours, singles or doubles, running alongside of them. He now proposed to make use of it to coach the eight, since this was the first time (save for a few practice runs of short length) that he had not acted as coxswain. In the latter tries Jerry Jackson had steered, and, as he owned a motor-boat of his own, which he ran every Summer, he was an apt pupil.
Little was said of the changes made, until the shell was well out in the river, and then Phil, who was, in the new arrangement, next to Tom, remarked:
“How do you like it, and what do you think of it?”
“I think Bossy was a calf to show his temper that way, and I like it here better than in the stern. I can row better when I don’t have to worry about picking up Frank’s stroke.”
“Say, but he’s a peach at it!” exclaimed Sid, admiringly, from his place at bow oar.
“Silence in the bows!” came the sharp command of Jerry Jackson.
“Listen to him,” spoke Bricktop, who was at number seven.
“That won’t do, boys!” came the sharp voice of the coach, as he ran his little launch up alongside. “If you’re not going to accord to Jackson, while he is in the position of coxswain, the same respect you gave me, you might as well give up rowing now and for all. You can’t talk and row. You need too much breath for the latter. So if you want to talk, and gibe the coxswain, then the place for you is on shore.”
“Right!” exclaimed Sid. “I’ll be good.”
“Same here,” came from Tom.
“I beg your pardon, coxswain,” said Phil.
Bricktop Molloy, grinning while the sweat ran down from his forehead, outlined in red hair, into his eyes, whispered:
“What you say, goes!”
And then Bricktop, being as loyal a Randallite as there was, proceeded to row as he had never before, while Frank set a killing stroke. The little lesson was not wasted.
Running along in the launch, by means of which he could keep close to the shell, Mr. Lighton gave valuable advice. He could do it to better advantage now that he was not in the boat.
“Cut ’em down some,” advised the coach, after Frank’s little spurt. “About twenty-eight a minute will do now. We’ll try a ten-mile bit to-day.”
Some of the lads felt their hearts sink at this. Eight had been the limit so far, but they realized that they were in for a grilling, and they stiffened their backs to it.
“Row out your strokes,” went on the coach. “Use every ounce of strength you have, and remember that your muscular force, applied at the beginning, does ten times the work as if you put it in at the end. Keep together. Get the oars in the water at the same time, and out together.
“Feather a bit higher—the water is rough to-day and you don’t want to splash. Try to imagine you are all a part of one man rowing in a small boat. Make your oars rise and fall together. They’re a bit ragged now.”
With such good advice did the coach urge on the lads, and they responded nobly. In a short time, though the rowing had gone a bit awkwardly at first, there was a noticeable improvement.
As Mr. Lighton had said, the boat had been a bit heavy aft, and had dragged. With his weight gone, and with a lighter coxswain, and with the other changes, there was great improvement. Instead of hanging in the water the shell seemed to glide through it at a steady rate. There was no jerking progress, but a steady onward movement, the perfection of rowing.
“Get a little more into the finish of the stroke!” called the coach at one point. “You must get the beginning of the stroke with the body only, but finish with the arms and shoulders. Send your elbows past your sides. Drop your shoulders, but keep up your heads and chests.”
Thus he corrected fault after fault, until on the return from that row not a lad but felt he had made great improvement. They were all grateful for the change, even Tom, who had been shifted from the post of most honor, next to the stroke. Of course, Boswell, who, like Achilles, sulked in his room, could not be expected to be happy.
“It wasn’t a fair thing,” he declared to his chum, Elwood Pierce. “I ought to have been kept at bow, or they might have made me stroke.”
“That’s right, old chap,” agreed Elwood. “But what can you expect of such beastly rotters? It wouldn’t be that way over in Oxford.”
Rumor had it that Pierce had tried to enter Oxford, but had failed miserably. He always declared that the English climate did not agree with him.
The Randall eight was within a few miles of their boathouse when the rowers saw approaching around the bend of the stream the Fairview eight, swinging along at a good pace. Instantly there came into the minds of all the same thought.
Mr. Lighton who was alongside, must have realized it, for he called out:
“I won’t mind if you have a brush with them, if they’re willing. But don’t get too excited or anxious over it.”
“Ready!” called Jerry Jackson.
Not get excited! As well tell a racehorse not to gallop when he hears the pit-pat of hoofs behind him. The hearts of all quickened.
On came the Fairview eight out for a final practice spin. Their season was over, but they were keeping in training for the races in the Fall.
“Want a brush?” asked Jerry of Roger Barns, who was coxswain.
“Sure!” came the reply. “And we’ll give you a start.”
“We don’t want it!” snapped Tom. “Even terms or nothing!”
“That’s right!” murmured Frank, as he took a tighter grip on his oar.
The two eights were now on even terms. Mr. Lighton, with a final nod of encouragement, steered his craft out of the way.
“Give way, boys!” cried Jerry, as he grasped the tiller lines.
“Show ’em how we row, even if Boxer Hall did beat us!” called Roger.
With eager strokes the lads took up the race, and, though it was but a friendly brush it meant more to Randall than any realized, save those thinly-clad lads in the shell. It was their first chance to see what they could do against a formidable rival.
“Come on now, fellows! Hit her up!” exclaimed Jerry Jackson, in a low voice.
“No, not yet!” whispered Frank, as he bent forward in his place at stroke until he was nearer the lad at the tiller ropes. “Feel ’em out first, Jerry. Don’t go breaking our hearts in the first mile. We’ve got a good ways to go in this little race, and the spurt will come toward the end, if I’m not mistaken. It would be pie for them if we rowed ourselves out, and then they would simply spurt past us. They’re older hands at it than we are.”
“I guess you’re right, Frank,” admitted Jerry, who took the advice in good part.
He had not been acting as coxswain long enough to feel resentment that his orders were not obeyed. He realized, also, that the lads at the oars had all the work to do, and, as it was not a regular race, when the coxswain had to be the general, it was no more than fair that the ones who had to do the labor should have a voice in saying how it was to be done.
“Wait until we—get into a—good swing. Let us pull at—this stroke—for a while,” went on Frank, speaking rather jerkily, and whispering every time his head came close to Jerry, in leaning forward to make his stroke. “Watch ’em, and when—you think we can spurt—then give—the word.”
“All right,” assented the coxswain. He looked over at the Fairview shell, and noted that Roger Barns, the coxswain, was closely regarding the Randall eight.
“They’re sizing us up,” thought Jerry. “Well, we may not be such a muchness now, but by Hector! When we start in regular training this Fall, if we don’t make ’em sit up and notice which side their tea is buttered on I’m a Dutchman, and that’s no wallflower at a dance, either!” and Jerry shut his lips firmly and felt delicately of the tiller lines, shifting the rudder slightly to learn that the shell was in good control. She responded to the lightest touch, being indeed a well-built craft and as light as a feather, though with sufficient stiffness—that quality always hard to get in a frail shell.
The two racing machines were now moving swiftly along, being about on even terms. Now and then, seemingly in response to a signal from their coxswain, the Fairview lads would hang back a bit, allowing the Randall shell to creep up. Evidently it was a little trick, played with the hope that Randall would spurt, and give her rivals an opportunity to sweep ahead of them in splendid style, thus winning the impromptu race. If such was the intention Randall did not bite at the bait, for Frank, in a few whispered words to Jerry, advised him not to signal for a quicker stroke.
“Say, is this a race or a crocheting party?” grumbled big Dutch Housenlager. “Vat you t’ink, Kindlings.”
“I’m thinking that—I’m—getting winded,” panted Dan Woodhouse.
“Silence up there!” exclaimed Jerry, sharply. “It isn’t a talking match, whatever else it is! You’ll get all the race you want pretty soon. We’re coming to a good stretch and I think they’ll hit it up there. Be ready for the word, fellows.”
“Say, boys, he talks; but he won’t let us!” complained Bricktop, winking at Jerry.
“That means you!” insisted the coxswain. He glanced ahead. The launch with the coach had speeded off and was some distance up the river now, evidently waiting for the finish of the little brush.
The talk in the Randall eight had been carried on in low tones, for sounds carry wonderfully clear over water, and the lads, realizing this, did not want their rivals to hear them.
Jerry stole another glance at the Fairview eight, and, unconsciously, probably, nearly every Randall man did likewise. The result was some uneven and ragged rowing, and a bit of splashing.
“Eyes in the boat!” came the sharp command from the little coxswain.
“Oh, you tyrant!” breathed Bricktop Molloy, but his smile took the sting from the words.
An instant later Jerry detected a movement in the rival shell.
“The spurt is coming!” he reasoned. “We must be ready for it!”
He hesitated but an instant, and then, as he noted Roger Barns straighten up slightly in his coxswain seat, and take a fresh grip on the tiller ropes, Jerry called:
“Ready boys! Hit her up. Thirty to the minute!”
At once the Randall shell shot forward almost as though raised from the water, for the oars caught evenly and every man fairly lifted himself from his seat, to urge the craft ahead.
“Come on, now!” cried Jerry. “Keep it up!”
He swayed his body to indicate the time of the stroke, and he was pleased to note that all the lads in the shell were rowing in unison. The blades of the oars dipped well—not too deeply—and the feathering, while it might have been better, was fair for a raw crew. Jerry stole one look over to the Fairview eight, and noted that he had not been mistaken. They, too, had spurted at the same time. Randall had not been caught napping.
For several minutes this kept up, and Fairview could not seem to shake off her rival, and shoot ahead. Then a command could be heard given in that shell. What it was Jerry could not catch, but he saw the time of the Fairview rowers quicken.
“Can you stand another stroke or two, boys?” he asked in a low voice.
Frank nodded without speaking. Indeed his breath, as well as the breath of his companions, was all needed for the work.
“A little livelier,” ordered Jerry, and he added two more strokes to the minute.
Of course the effect was not so great as before, but it told, and Fairview, which had begun creeping ahead, was held in check by Randall.
Another minute passed, and then the superior training and practice of Fairview told. Slowly she forged ahead, and nothing the Randall lads could do could prevent it. They were at their limit now, or at least the limit to which Jerry dared push them. With straining eyes he shot a quick glance across, and noted with despair that Fairview was a good quarter of a length ahead. Another minute and she was a half.
“One more stroke!” pleaded the coxswain, and Frank nodded desperately. Slowly Randall began creeping up again, but it could not last.
And then came a narrow turn in the river, a rather dangerous place with cross currents.
“Easy all!” called Roger Barns, and his crew ceased rowing. It was a signal that the impromptu race was over.
“Easy all!” commanded Jerry, with a sigh that they had not won. But at that Fairview was only a scant quarter of a length in advance. Randall had been beaten, but not by much.
“Congratulations!” called Roger to his rival steersman. “You’re coming on, Randall.”
“Oh, we’ll beat you in the Fall,” retorted Jerry, cheerfully.
“We’d have walked away from you if it hadn’t been the tail end of the season,” declared Hadfield Spencer, the Fairview stroke. “We’re not in training.”
“Oh, don’t crawl,” said the coxswain. “They rowed a good race.”
And this was praise indeed, from no mean rival, and from the coxswain of a crew that had given Boxer Hall, the river champions, a hard race.
“Well done, boys! Well done!” exclaimed Coach Lighton, as he came puffing up in his launch. “You did better than I expected you would. Fairview, we’ll be ready for you in the Fall.”
“We’ll take you on all right,” replied Roger Barns, with a genial laugh.
“And you steered exceedingly well, Jackson,” went on the coach, as the Fairview shell pulled off. “I was afraid you would spurt too soon, but you held yourself well in.”
“I was watching the other fellows,” said Jerry.
“That’s the way to do,” was the comment. “Now take it easy to the float.”
There was talk all through Randall that night of the performance of the eight.
“I think we have just the right crew now,” confided the coach to Dr. Churchill, when he went to dine with the venerable head of Randall.
“Ah, I am exceedingly glad to hear that. It will be a source of gratification to the alumni who have so generously provided for the racing material. And you say our boys nearly won from Fairview? How many innings did the game go? What was the score, and did Parsons pitch?”
“Ah—er—my dear Doctor,—er—we were talking about the crew,” said the coach, delicately.
“Oh, yes, so we were,” admitted the good doctor, in some confusion. “I was thinking of football, was I not? And so we have a good crew. Hum! Very well. I am so occupied with my translations of those Assyrian tablets that I fear my mind wanders at times.”
At times! Ah, Dr. Churchill, more often than “at times” did your mind wander! But what of that? It was keen enough on all occasions, though running in various channels, as many an old graduate will testify.
The practice at Randall went on. There were sore hearts, but it could not be helped when the lads who thought they should be picked for the tentative crews, or for the singles, were passed by. For Mr. Lighton was impartial, and insisted on only the best no matter at what cost.
Perhaps sorest of all was Boswell, he who had been displaced from what had come to be regarded as the varsity eight, though, as the coach pointed out, there might be changes in the Fall. Boswell was ordered into what was termed the “second” eight, but refused to go.
“I may not row at all,” he said loftily to his crony, Pierce. “Or I may go in the singles.”
“I would,” suggested the latter. “My word! A man’s his own boss in a single.”
“I’ll think of it,” replied Boswell.
Examinations came, with all their grilling and nerve-racking tendencies, and were more or less successfully gotten through with by our friends and their chums. Then came the long vacation.