“That’s us—Randall!” and the song and cry sent the members of the four-oared crew rejoicing on their way. They were Joe Jackson—Jerry’s twin brother—Bert Trendell, Pete Backus and Sam Terry.
Early in the season Bean Perkins had been picked for the four, but he had not made good. Anyhow, he declared, he could help Randall more with yelling than any other way, and many agreed with him, for Bean was certainly a “shouter.”
The river presented a gay scene. It was fairly covered with boats, until it seemed an impossibility that a race could be held. But the course had been marked off, and soon the boats of the officials would patrol the water-pathway and clear it.
Owing to the different lengths of the various races, several starting points had been selected, and the races had been timed so that the crowds could get from one to the other to watch the beginning if they desired. Of course the eight-oared race was the longest—three miles in this case, since the course of the river, narrowing as it did at several points, did not offer any longer course at any place available to the colleges. And three eight-oared shells take up considerable room abreast.
Launches, rowboats, and a sailboat or two, made up the craft holding the spectators. In addition the banks of the river, for a mile or more, were gay with those who had come to witness the aquatic sports. The finish of all the races was to be at the Randall boathouse. This had been decided by lot, and our friends had been lucky. They were glad, too, since they could offer the hospitality of their new building to their rivals. And, in a way, Fairview and Boxer were glad, as their boathouses were rather ancient, and could accommodate only a comparatively few guests, while Randall’s was large and roomy.
Fairview and Boxer Hall had their crews or individual rowers nearly all assembled. A few were not yet on hand, and some of the shells had not yet arrived. But all was in readiness for the three-cornered four-oared shell contest.
“Say, who’s going to win?” challenged Tom of Ruth, for the girls, as you may well suppose, had been provided with choice places by our friends, where they could see all the finishes well.
“Who’s going to win?” repeated Madge Tyler. “Why, we are, of course! See our colors?” and she flaunted them in Tom’s face.
He looked at Ruth, and beneath a bow of the ribbon of the hues of Fairview, Tom caught a glimpse of his own college colors—a tiny bow. Ruth saw his glance, smiled and—blushed.
“You may win some, but the eight comes to us!” declared Sid.
“Oh, aren’t we the sure ones, though!” mocked Helen Newton.
“Wait until it’s all over,” advised Mabel Harrison.
“They’re going to start!” suddenly cried Madge, as the three four-oared shells moved off down the stream.
“No, they’re only going to the starting point,” said Frank. “This is only a mile race, and they decided to row down to it instead of being towed, so as to get a little warm-up practice. I thought it would be a good thing for our crew to row down to the start, but Mr. Lighton says he has provided a launch for us, and the shell will be towed.”
“I wish it was all over,” murmured Tom.
“So do I,” agreed Ruth, in a low voice.
“Come on now, boys! Another song!” demanded Bean Perkins, and the strains welled forth.
“Three cheers for Boxer Hall!” came the demand, and it was given with a will.
“Three big ones for Fairview!” called an adherent of that co-educational institution.
The four-oared crews, selected after much elimination work, were approaching their starting point. They were out of sight of those at the boathouse now, and it would be a little time before they appeared, rowing to the finish line.
The band began to play. There was gay laughter and talk, and some nervous walking about by those lads who were to race next. The course had been cleared, though now and then some craft would trespass on it, to be hustled out of the way by the official boats.
It seemed an almost interminable time before the shout sounded:
“Here they come!”
There was a craning forward by all. Many who had fieldglasses used them. Ruth produced a pair.
“Who’s leading?” begged Tom, in an agony of doubt.
“Fairview!” she replied.
“No, really?” and he almost grabbed the binoculars from her hands. “That’s right,” he admitted, grimly. “But our boys are pulling strong.”
“If they can only win!” breathed Sid.
“Keep still!” commanded Phil, whose nerves, as were those of his chums, were at a tension.
Cheers began to drift along the shore, coming from the crowds lining the banks.
“Randall has pulled up!” cried Sid. “Our boys are rowing strong!”
“They’ve got a ways to go to finish,” murmured Tom. “Oh, if they can last it out!”
Randall had a good lead now, and it was seen that Fairview was splashing badly. It developed later that two of her four-oared crew were overtrained—they could not stand the heart-breaking strain at the finish.
“Come on, you Randall! Come on!” was the cry.
“Boxer’s creeping up!”
“No, Randall’s taken a spurt!”
Conflicting were the cries. The boats were see-sawing now. They were getting nearer and nearer to the finish line. The crowds leaned forward. Pandemonium broke loose. All three colleges were being cheered.
“It’s going to be a tie!” yelled Phil, as he pointed to the Boxer and Randall shells, now almost bow and bow. “A dead heat! Fairview is out of it!”
“Come on, boys!” implored Tom, stretching out his hands as though to pull their shell forward.
There came a momentary hush. Then a great roar broke out.
“Boxer! Boxer Hall wins! Wow, look at that spurt!”
And, with sinking hearts, our friends watched their rival’s shell dart over the line, a winner by a bare quarter of a length—but still a winner.
Randall’s adherents seemed stunned at first. They had been so sure of winning when the two fours swept up to the finish line, with Randall so close to Boxer, that, when victory was snatched from their very grasp, it seemed hard indeed. No one knew what to do, while the victors rested on their oars, justifiable smiles of triumph on their faces.
As for the losers, they hung their heads dejectedly, and that tears of mortification came into their eyes is not to their shame.
Then Tom Parsons found himself, and cried out:
“Three cheers for Boxer Hall! It was a good win!”
“That’s right,” echoed Sid Henderson.
And the cheers were given, none the less hearty because they came from the defeated side.
“Clear the course!” came the command from the judges’ boat, and then came the formal announcement of Boxer winning. She had five points to her credit now.
The Fairview lads, in the bitterness of their hearts, for they realized that it was overtraining, and, in a way, over-confidence that had made them third, rowed up to the float, disembarked and walked away in silence—at least there was silence until Bean Perkins yelled:
“Three cheers for Fairview—she knows how to take a licking the same as Randall!”
And at once the river echoed the cheers.
“Well, you did us that time, Boxer!” went on Bean. “But our time will come—we’re going to do you in the eight.”
“Not if we know it,” retorted Pinky Davenport.
“Oh, I’m so sorry—for you, Tom,” breathed Ruth, as the tall pitcher stood close beside her on the balcony of the boathouse. “Does it bother you much?”
“Well, of course I’d like to have seen our four win,” he replied, “but it doesn’t bother me. It only makes me mad. We’ll win that eight if we have to break every oar.”
“Don’t do that, Tom, old man,” advised Frank, who heard this last. “Breaking an oar is worse than catching a crab. It will lose us the race sure. Be moderate.”
“It’s hard, after all the work we did,” complained Sid.
“But look at it,” put in Phil. “We beat Fairview, and that’s something for a green crew to do.”
“So we did!” exclaimed Sid, brightening up.
“Awfully sweet of you to remind us of it,” said Madge, making a little bow.
“Oh—er—I didn’t mean it that way,” stammered Sid. “I didn’t think.”
“We’ll forgive you,” spoke Mabel, gently.
The single races were to have come next, but at the last moment it was discovered that one of the outriggers on the shell to be used by the Boxer Hall contestant was split, so a halt was called until he could get out one of the spare Randall boats. Then he was allowed a half hour to “get acquainted with his craft,” this being generously allowed by the other two colleges.
“The tub race! Have the tub race now!” came the general cry, and as none of the other competitors wished to fill in the vacant time, and as the tub race would not count in points, it was decided to advance that on the program.
Accordingly, a number of washtubs, of good size, which had been provided, were brought forward. There were to be two contestants from each college, making six that would compete for first and second prizes, in the shape of silver cups.
Snail Looper and Dutch Housenlager were to represent Randall, Dutch being the only regular rower who dared to brave the laughter of the crowd.
“Why shouldn’t I?” he demanded, when questioned. “It’ll be fun, and it will keep me from thinking of the big race. Besides, I think it will be good exercise, and I’m heavy enough to weight my tub down in the water, and that’s a point. It won’t turn so easily.”
“Well, don’t strain yourself, that’s all,” counseled Mr. Lighton. “We don’t want any slip-up in the eight-oared race just because you want some fun.”
“Oh, sure, I’ll be careful!” promised Dutch, making a playful grab for Sid, who jumped back, thereby nearly upsetting an elderly gentleman who was sitting near the edge of the balcony to see the sports.
“Careful! Careful!” he exclaimed testily.
“Look out what you’re doing, Dutch!” warned Tom. “He’s one of the committee that gave us this rowing outfit. He’ll get you down on his bad books if you don’t look out.”
“Just my luck!” cried Dutch, ruefully.
“Tub racers this way!” cried the starter. “Lively now!”
With but a single paddle to propel them on, the six lads, amid much laughter, took their places in the tubs. They were to paddle to a stake boat, about half way across the river, turn there, and come back.
Anyone who has seen a tub race knows how almost impossible it is to prevent the craft from whirling about. It doesn’t seem to want to advance in a straight line. This was the case here, and when the lads started off it was only to go swirling madly about in concentric circles.
“Go the other way!” was shouted at them.
“Yes, reverse—you’ll get dizzy!”
“Waltz me around again, Dutchy!” called Tom to Housenlager.
“You watch!” he shouted back. “I’m going to win!”
And it did seem as though he had a good chance. Whether it was his weight, or the way in which he used the paddle, was not manifested, but he certainly forged ahead.
He managed to turn the stake-boat first, though Snail Looper was a close second. Boxer Hall was out of it in this race, her two representatives seemingly not able to do much. But the two Fairview lads were pressing Dutch and Snail closely.
“Here I come! Here I come!” cried Dutch, as, amid increased laughter, the four lads neared the finishing line close to the float. But he did not see how near one of the Fairview lads was to him.
Then one of the latter tubs collided with that of Dutch. He uttered a surprised exclamation, turned to look, and his paddle slipped from his grasp.
“Come back here!” yelled he, making a grab for it.
Alas for Dutch! He over-balanced himself, or perhaps he was dizzy from the whirling. At any rate overboard he went with a splash.
“There! I knew something would happen!” cried Mr. Lighton, in vexed tones, as he saw the accident, and he hurried down to see that Dutch quickly changed to dry rowing togs, for the tub racers had worn their light garments.
Meanwhile Snail Looper came steadily on, finishing first, with a Fairview lad second.
“First win for Randall!” yelled a Boxer Hall adherent. “You fellows had better stick to tubs!”
“Wait!” murmured Tom. “This may put Dutch in just the right trim to pull the race of his life.”
“How about you, Dutch?” asked Tom eagerly, as he hurried up to his dripping chum, while others followed. The lads in rowing costumes did not hesitate to crowd close, while the other spectators, and there were many on the float, rather held back, for Dutch, in the exuberance of his mirth, was shaking himself like a Newfoundland dog, scattering drops all over.
“Fine and dandy!” was the answer of the big lad. “I just needed a bath.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Mr. Lighton, somewhat sternly, “you had better get a good rub-down, and put on some dry togs. Have you any dry ones here?”
“No, but——”
“He can take mine, I guess I’m not going to get a chance to row,” spoke Harry Morton, a Freshman, and he smiled gamely in spite of the disappointment he must have felt, for he had practiced hard, as a substitute.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Lighton, and he gave Morton a look that meant much. “Hurry now, Housenlager.”
“Did you see me tumble in?” demanded Dutch, with a cheerful grin.
“Yes,” assented Tom, somewhat sharply. “Quit your fooling now. We’ll be in the race soon.”
As the lad whose outrigger had delayed the race for single shells was not satisfied with the boat provided for him, another was gotten out. This further delayed matters, and it was decided to run off the doubles in the meanwhile. The singles would follow and then would come the great eight-oared contest, on which so much depended.
“Now boys, go in and win!” pleaded Mr. Lighton, to George Carter and Ben Blake, who were to uphold the honor of Randall in the doubles. “Remember about keeping on your course. If you are in your own water you’re all right. Once you get off the course, and there’s an accident, you’ll have to abide by it. And pull hard! Save your breath for the spurt that is sure to come. And look out for Boxer. They’re straining every nerve to beat us in every event to-day. They want to prove that it isn’t possible to make rowers in a single season, and I want you to prove that it can be done. It’s up to me—in a way—but I want you to do your share. Will you?”
“We sure will!” cried Blake. “Eh, Carter?”
“Surest thing you know,” assented the other.
“Remember, Blake, you’re the bowman,” went on the coach. “Mind your steering. That new mechanical contrivance on this boat works very well. It’s delicate, though. The least touch of your foot will shift the rudder. And give your orders so Carter can hear you, but don’t waste too much breath doing it.”
“Carter, mind your stroke. You may offset the change of the rudder if you pull too hard or too easy. Now go ahead—and may the Fates be kind to you. Randall needs those three points.”
The three pair-oar boats moved off to the starting point and the crowd prepared to watch another exciting contest. Dutch had gone into the dressing rooms, accompanied by one of the trainers, who was directed to give him a rub-down. Tom followed, and as he went in he passed Boswell, who was also headed in the same direction.
“I guess they don’t ever intend the singles to be rowed,” remarked the rich lad, with some disgust in his tones. “Here I’ve been fiddling around just because that chump from Boxer Hall can’t get a shell to suit him. Why didn’t they look over their outriggers before they came?”
“Oh, they’ll be ready soon,” spoke Tom. Boswell had, as you may have assumed, been picked to uphold the Randall end in the singles. To do him justice he had trained hard and well, and had been faithful. He was not a favorite, chiefly because he boasted so much, and talked so incessantly of his “private trainer,” and other “possessions.”
“I’m going to get a handkerchief for my neck,” explained Boswell, as he approached his locker. “The sun’s hotter on the back of my neck than I thought it was.”
Tom passed on, paying no more attention to the single sculler. The tall pitcher was chiefly concerned to see that Dutch did no more “cutting up,” and dropped the horseplay with which he was wont to amuse himself at all times.
“His monkey business may cost us the race,” thought Tom, a bit angrily.
But Housenlager managed to contain himself, and was soon in dry rowing togs again. He and Tom lingered in the dressing rooms of the boathouse until someone called for the loser of the tub races to come out. Tom followed slowly, and, as he did so, he passed Boswell, who was restoring some of his garments to the locker, having tied a silk handkerchief about his neck. It was the same gaudy-hued one that had a strip torn from it, and, at the sight, Tom’s memory went back to the hut on Crest Island, to Ruth’s lost brooch, and to the robbery.
“Well, I hope we get off soon,” remarked the rich lad. He was stuffing something into the pocket of his trousers. The garments fell from a hook, and dropped to the floor. As they did so something fell from them and rolled over, stopping at Tom’s feet. He stooped to pick it up, and to his surprise he saw that it was a gold brooch. His wonder grew as he noticed that it was exactly like the one Ruth had described to him as missing, and similar in pattern to the one he had often seen her wear—an old-fashioned pin, heavy and massive in design.
“Thanks,” began Boswell, holding out his hand for it.
Tom held it back. He glared at Boswell.
“Where—where did you get that?” exclaimed Tom.
“Well, I don’t know that it’s any of your affair,” was the rather cool reply.
“Well, I intend to make it mine! Do you know to whom that pin belongs?”
“Yes, to me, and I’ll trouble you to hand it over.”
“Wait!” exclaimed Tom. “Wait, Boswell. That pin isn’t yours, and you know it.”
“Well, I like your nerve! Whose is it?”
“Ruth Clinton’s!” blurted out Tom.
“Ruth Clinton’s?” cried Boswell. “She never saw that pin. I—I intended giv—look here, Parsons, what business of yours is this, anyhow? I know you and Miss Clinton are——”
“You let her name alone!” cried Tom, fiercely. “As for her never seeing this pin before—look here!”
He pressed on the secret spring in the back—a trick Ruth had taught him. A tiny panel of gold flew open, disclosing the girl’s photograph beneath it.
“There!” cried Tom. “I suppose that got there by magic. Ruth never saw it; eh, Boswell? I don’t know what to think of this—of you. You must have heard about the jewel robbery—of the missing Boxer Hall cups. And now you have this pin——”
“Stop!” cried Boswell. “If you dare, Parsons, say that I——”
“Ready for the singles! Boswell, are you there?” called a voice at the door of the dressing room. “Hurry out—Boxer wins the doubles!”
The two lads, almost ready to come to blows, started. This was news indeed.
“Randall loses in the doubles!” cried Tom, aghast.
“Yes,” went on Joe Jackson, who had come to call Boswell. “Carter broke an oar near the finish line, and it was all up then. It’s tough luck, for our boat was leading.”
“Fate seems to be against us!” thought Tom, bitterly. Boswell was staring at him and at the gold brooch, which he still held.
“Look here!” blurted out Tom. “I know more than you think I do. I saw you and Mendez in the boat one day. You had a gold brooch then—you were talking about old-fashioned jewelry.”
“Wait—stop!” burst out Boswell. “I’ll talk to you about this. I’ll tell you——”
“Boswell, they’re waiting for you!” interrupted Joe. “The race is called. For the love of tripe win it! Randall sure is in the soup to-day. Win!”
“I will!” cried the rich lad. “I can’t stop now!” he cried to Tom, as he hurried out. “You keep that pin. I’ll explain later. The man I got it from may be around here yet!”
“You’d better guess I’ll keep this pin!” murmured Tom. “As for an explanation, you’ll have some tall talking to do to convince me. I begin to see how things are now!”
Boswell ran out. There was a cheer from the float—from the crowds along the river bank.
“Come on, Tom!” cried Joe. “You and your crew are next. Oh, for the love of Randall win that race! Boxer Hall has eight points now—the four and the double. But if we win the eight and the single we’ll have twelve, and be the champions.”
“Then we’ll win!” cried Tom, desperately, as he clasped Ruth’s brooch in his hand and raced out. As he came from the dressing rooms he heard Bean Perkins yelling:
“All together now, boys! The ‘Conquer or Die’ song, and sing it as if you meant it. Randall is nearing the finish!”
Blake and Carter, bitter over the unforeseen accident that had robbed them of victory, were getting out of their shell. Boswell and the others, in the singles were being sent off after brief instructions. Tom looked at his rival, and many thoughts came to him.
The crowd was now so dense on the float, and on the stairway leading to the balcony, that Tom could not make his way up to tell Ruth the good news—that he had her brooch. He made the effort, but it was next to impossible.
“Come on, Tom!” called Frank, behind him. “Mr. Lighton wants the crew of the eight in the dressing room for a last conference. Oh, cats! But the time is getting close.”
“Don’t get nervous, you chump!” exclaimed Dutch. “Look at Kindlings, as cool as an icehouse.”
Elation, worry, wonder and apprehension were Tom’s mingled feelings as he followed his chums and the coach. What Mr. Lighton said he hardly comprehended. But the coach impressed on the lads the necessity for coolness, the need of a spurt at the right time, and then the keeping up of the stroke until the bow of the boat had crossed the finish line.
Boswell, rowing with the others to the start, was almost upset in his mind as was Tom.
“So, he thinks I stole that pin—all the jewelry, I expect!” he mused. “What can I do? What shall I do? I wonder where in the world Mendez is? If I could only find him——”
“Mind where you’re going, Randall!” called a sharp voice, and Boswell changed his course, that had threatened to cut into the Fairview shell.
Boswell and the others reached the starting line. There they got into position, the last word was given, there was a moment of suspense, and the warning gun was fired. Then came the final signal, and they were off.
Three backs bent to the stroke, six oars took the water, there was a swirl of foam and bubbles. Tiny whirlpools formed at the ends of the spoons, and the single race was under way.
“Oh, if I can only win—if I can only win!” thought Boswell.
And the lads from Boxer Hall and Fairview thought the same thing.
It was half way to the finishing mark. Boswell was rowing well, and was maintaining the slight lead he had. Casting a glance over his shoulder to note his course, his eyes swept the crowd on the river bank, near which he was. A face seemed to stand out from among the others.
“Mendez! Mendez!” cried Boswell. “Mendez, go to the Randall boathouse at once! I need you there! A whole lot is at stake! There’s a hundred dollars in it for you from me! Go, do you hear! The Randall boathouse! Get there as soon as you can! I’ll meet you after this race! Do you hear?” and Boswell fairly screamed the words.
“Yes, senor, I hear,” replied the Mexican. “I go,” and he started off on the run, for Boswell’s manner was such that it carried conviction with it. And then Boswell set himself to the race again. But he had hesitated just a moment—just a fatal moment—and the next instant, with the lads in them picking up their strokes, the Fairview and Boxer Hall shells passed him.
“I’m done for!” murmured Boswell.
“Come on, Boswell!”
“Row hard!”
“You’ve got to row!”
“It’s your last chance!”
Thus his mates encouraged the Randall lad in the single shell, as the three craft swept on up to the finish line in front of the new boathouse. But it was not to be. Boswell pulled with all his strength. Never had there been seen a better exhibition on Sunny River, but it was too late. His little hesitation when he had called to Mendez—the excited state of his mind, in wondering at Tom’s accusation—all contributed to his defeat. The slight delay was fatal.
“Oh, row! Row!” implored Bean Perkins. “Give him a song, fellows!” and that grand Latin chorus of the ancients pealed out.
But it was not to be. Fairview was leading, with Boxer second and poor Boswell third. And in this order they finished, giving Fairview her first win of the day, and Boxer her first defeat. As for Randall, once more she tasted bitterness.
“Three cheers for Boswell!” called someone, and, though he was no favorite, no one could withhold from the measure of praise due him for his plucky effort. Few knew what had contributed to his defeat. Even his rivals, hearing him call to the man on the bank, only thought him shouting to some friend, and thought how foolish he was thus to waste his precious time and energy. But it was none of their business, and so they rowed on to defeat him.
“Never mind!” consoled Mr. Lighton. “You rowed the best you could, Boswell, I have no doubt. It was a fair race.”
“I—I could have won,” he panted, and there were some smiles from those who thought it but part of his usual boastfulness. But Boswell paid no attention to them. He was seeking out Tom Parsons, and the Mexican.
“Get ready for the eight-oared race now,” directed some of the officials. “Randall, is your crew ready?”
“All ready,” answered Mr. Lighton.
“Ready,” answered Pinky Davenport, for Boxer Hall.
“All ready,” assented Roger Barns, for Fairview.
Boswell made his way through the press of rowers and spectators, whispered comments following him. But he paid no attention.
Into the dressing room he strode, where the crew of the eight were just finishing a little conference with their coxswain, Jerry Jackson.
“Parsons, a word with you!” exclaimed Boswell, rather haughtily.
“As many as you like—after the race,” said Tom, coldly. He still held clenched in his hand the brooch. He made up his mind to get it to Ruth before he went off in the launch that was to take him and his mates to the starting point. He had no pocket in which to put it, he could not row holding it, and he wanted to conceal it from Phil.
“No, now!” snapped Boswell. “Something unexpected came up as I was on the course. I think it is due to me to allow me to explain how I came by that——”
“Here!” exclaimed Tom, anxious that Phil should not listen. “Make it brief. I can’t understand what you have to explain, though.”
“You’ll soon know—someone else will explain, too. He will be here shortly.”
“Ready for the eight! Ready for the eight!” came the summons from without.
“Get together, fellows!” called Captain Frank Simpson. “And for the love of Randall row as you never rowed before.”
“Don’t hang back when I call for the spurt,” added the coxswain.
“Ready for the eight! Ready for the eight!” again came the summons.
“Come on!” ordered Frank once more, looking over to where Tom and Boswell were standing, apart from the others.
“Get a move on, Parsons,” directed Dutch. “If we win you’ll be the first over the line, being in the bow. Come on.” Tom had again been made bow oar.
“No, wait a minute!” implored Boswell. “I want to say something, Parsons.”
“Won’t after the race do? I can’t listen now. Besides I’ve got to give Ruth——”
“It’s about her I want to explain. Hang it, man, it won’t take a second.”
“Is Boswell in there?” called someone at the door of the dressing room.
“Yes—yes!” eagerly assented the rich lad.
“There’s a fellow out here wants to see you,” went on one of the rubbers. “Some sort of a foreigner. Says you told him to come here and——”
“Yes! Yes! Let him in!” cried Boswell. “It’s someone I want to see!”
There was a little stir about the doorway and a man strolled in.
“Senor Boswell,” he began, “you have sent for me, and——”
“Mendez!” gasped Tom.
“Mendez!” echoed Sid, Frank and Phil.
“Yes, Mendez,” spoke Boswell. “Now, Parsons, I think he’ll tell you that I bought that brooch from him. Show him the pin!”
“I—er—” began the tall pitcher, and then realizing that concealment from Phil was no longer possible, he held out the trinket.
“Ruth’s brooch!” cried her brother. “How in the world did you get it? What does it all mean?”
“It’s a long story,” said Tom. “We haven’t time for more than a fraction of it. Boswell had the pin. He says——”
“I say I bought it of Mendez, and he’ll tell you the same thing!” interrupted the rich lad. “Did I not?” and he appealed to the Mexican. “Didn’t you bring this to me to-day?”
“Senor Boswell is right,” assented the foreigner. “I have sold many things to Senor Boswell. He say for me to look for an old-fashioned brooch for him, like one his mother has, and he show me a jewel of the respected Mrs. Boswell, which I have also procure for him. I get this other one from Senor Blasdell, from whom I take over the take-care work on Crest Island.”
“Blasdell!” cried Tom. “Did he sell you this brooch, Mendez?”
“The senor says what is correct.”
“But where did he get it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look here, Mendez,” burst out Tom, “do you know anything about the Farson jewel robbery—about the Boxer Hall cups—about the pawn tickets? Do you?”
“On my honor, senor, no!” and the man bowed low. He seemed at ease, and to be speaking the truth.
“But why did you leave the island so suddenly?”
“Ah, senor, I will tell you. I will confess. In my country we do not—that is, we who are of my class—we do not consider it a crime to smuggle—ah, well, a few cigars. I was guilty of that here. I smuggle some here and I sell them in my little store on what you call—er—the edge, is it not?”
“The side,” murmured Phil.
“Yes, I thank the senor. I sell smuggled cigars on the side. It is not a great crime, I think. But one day word comes to me in the hands of a boy from a friend, that the government of your country is about to squeeze me—am I right?”
“I guess you mean ‘pinch’—arrest,” suggested Sid.
“Yes, that is it. I am to be pinched—Oh, what a language! Now I have no desire to be pinched, for what I, personally, do not consider a crime. So I flee—I vamoose. I go, and take all I can with me. Then, later, when it has all been blown up——”
“Blown over,” suggested Frank.
“Blown over, yes, I thank you. When it is all blown over I come back. I have no more smuggled cigars. I am not in danger of being pinched. I come back to open my little store, and be the take-care man on Crest Island.
“As for the gold pin, some time after I leave, so that I may not be pinched, I meet in New York the Senor Blasdell. He greet me kindly and say to me do I not want to buy of him a gold pin. I deal in jewelry on the edge—I mean side—and I remember that Senor Boswell have commission me for an old-fashioned pin. I think I have just what he want. I buy it from Senor Blasdell, and bring it to Senor Boswell at his college here. That is all,” and he bowed to all.
“That’s how I got the pin,” said Boswell, coldly, looking at Tom. “I hope you are satisfied.”
“Of course,” murmured Tom. “But I don’t understand. Where is Blasdell? Where is that rascally pawnbroker? Where is the rest of the jewelry, and the Boxer Hall cups?”
“Say, what are you anyhow, Tom—a riddle reader?” demanded Dan Woodhouse.
“What is all this Chinese puzzle about, anyhow?” asked Jerry Jackson. “If we’re going to row to-day——”
“Faith we’d better be gettin’ at ut!” cried Bricktop, with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
“Where’s the Randall eight?” cried the voice of Mr. Lighton. “Why aren’t you out here? We’re waiting.”
“We’re coming!” exclaimed Tom. “Fellows,” he added, turning to the four of the crew who were not in on the secret, “we’ll explain later. I’ll see you after the race,” he called to Boswell.
“As you please,” was the cool answer.
“Are you all ready, boys?” inquired Mr. Lighton.
“My throat’s as dry as a limekiln,” said Bricktop.
The eight, in their shell, were at the starting point, having gone down in the launch, while the spider-like boat was towed. On either side of them were the Boxer and the Fairview eights, with their crews as eager to get off as were our friends.
“Take a slice of lemon,” went on the coach, producing one, and a knife from his launch. “Anybody else have one? Hold the pieces in your mouth,” he advised.
Several of the lads accepted bits of the citrous fruit.
“Are your oarlocks all right—and the stretchers?” went on the coach.
Everyone tested his own, and no complaint was forthcoming. Mr. Pierson, who had remained faithful to the last, said something in a low voice to Mr. Lighton.
“Yes,” assented the head coach, adding: “Don’t forget to keep your eyes in the boat, whatever you do. Your coxswain will watch the other craft, and tell you when to spurt. This is important—eyes in the boat and no talking. You’ve got to row!”
For the other crews, their coaches and advisers were speaking the last words to the nervous lads. From time to time those in the Boxer Hall or the Fairview eight looked over at their rivals. Randall was to take the middle course, an advantage that had come to them by lot.
Tom and his three chums wanted desperately to talk about the dramatic scene enacted in the boathouse just before they had started, but there was no chance. They had hurried away, and in the launch, on the trip down, Mr. Lighton held their attention. Tom had managed to slip up to Ruth, and hand her the brooch just before leaving. That she was surprised is putting it mildly.
“Oh, Tom! Where on earth did you get it?” she had cried. “I—I could hug you for this!” and her eyes sparkled.
“We’ll postpone the hugging until after the race! Just cheer for our boat!”
“I will. Oh, Tom, my dear old brooch! Can’t you tell me how you got it?”
“Not now—later—I haven’t time. See you after the race!” and he had run off to join his mates.
“How much longer?” asked Frank, as he shifted himself on his sliding seat.
“Not much, I guess,” replied Mr. Lighton, looking at his watch. “About——”
A shot boomed out from the starter’s boat.
“There goes the warning gun,” the coach interrupted himself. “A minute more. Take it easy at the start, boys. It isn’t a hundred-yard dash, remember. The hard work will come at the end. Steady all—eyes in the boat—row hard—and—win!”
And, with these final words, Mr. Lighton steamed off in his launch, the other coaches also leaving their crews to themselves.
The race was to be down stream, and, in order to make an even start, the stern of each shell had been made fast to an anchored boat in the middle of the river. At the signal the retaining ropes were to be loosed, and the race would start. Eager ears waited for the final signal.
“Get ready boys!” called Jerry Jackson, his eyes on his watch, which he had fastened before him. “You’ve got about fifteen seconds more.”
There were sharp intakings of breath, and the young coxswain, glancing at his crew, noted with satisfaction that the slight tendency toward nervousness, exhibited by some, had disappeared. They were all cool and eager.
Crack! came the report of the starting gun.
On the instant the retaining cables were loosed, and twenty-four oars seemed to take the water as one. It was a good, clean, even start.
To bring the finish opposite the boathouse, it had been necessary to go down the stream some distance, and there were few spectators gathered there.
But such as were there gave forth a hearty cheer, and the yells of the three colleges were given in turn, for some loyal-hearted lads had sacrificed their chances to see the finish, that they might cheer the start.
“Steady, fellows, steady,” counseled Jerry, in a low voice, as he noticed a tendency to hurry. “It isn’t time to hit up the pace. They’re both keeping even with us,” he added.
Then began a steady grind. A leaning forward of the bodies, with hands well out over the toes, the dipping of the blades of the oars into the water, and then that tremendous pull of sixteen sturdy arms, shoulders and trunk—the pushing of sixteen muscular legs, the rising off the seats to get all the weight possible on the oar at the point of leverage where it would do the most good.
Over and over again was this repeated. Over and over again, with the eyes of seven of the men on the back of the man in front of him timing the movement, and with the eyes of the stroke on the coxswain, to catch the slightest signal.
Stroke after stroke—movement after movement, one just like the other—twenty-eight to the minute, Jerry having started them off with that minimum.
And what Randall was doing, so was Fairview and Boxer Hall, in the same degree.
The first mile was passed, with the net result that all three shells were on even terms, albeit one or the other had forged ahead slightly, not because either one had quickened the pace so much consciously as that they had done so unconsciously, and there was, of course, a difference in the muscular power at times.
They were half way over the second mile—half the course had been rowed.
Frank Simpson, watching Jerry, saw the little coxswain shoot a quick glance toward the Boxer Hall boat, and then stiffen in his seat.
“Hit it up!” cried Jerry, and he gave the signal for a thirty-per-minute stroke. But, even as he did Frank, risking something by taking his eyes off the coxswain, looked across the lane of water.
He saw the Fairview boat shoot ahead, while, the next instant the Randall shell, urged onward by the increased stroke, tried to minimize the advantage gained.
“Here they come, boys! Get ready!” yelled Bean Perkins, wildly waving his megaphone. “Here they come!”
“Oh wow!” shouted Joe Jackson. “For the love of Cæsar tell us who’s ahead.”
“It’s hard to see from here. But I think——”
“Oh, who cares what you think?” interrupted a lad. “Don’t give us any false information.”
“Get ready boys!” cried Bean again. “The college cheer when they get opposite the old boathouse, and then the ‘Conquer or Die’ song. We’ve got to pull ’em on!”
All was excitement. A hundred voices mingled in expressions of hopes and fears. The rival college cheers blended into one riotous conglomeration of sound. The three shells were sweeping on to victory—victory for just one!
“Oh, Madge!” cried Ruth. “I daren’t look. Here, you take the field glasses, and tell me who’s ahead.”
Her own college colors slipped from her dress unheeded, and there was disclosed the tiny knot of Randall’s maroon and yellow.
“Ruth!” expostulated Mabel, as she pointed to the traitorous hues.
“I don’t care!” replied Ruth, as her hand went to where her restored brooch was at her throat.
“Who’s ahead?” demanded Helen Newton, as Madge peered through the glasses.
“Fairview!”
“What?”
“She is! She is! Oh, girls, Fairview is going to win!”
“Who—who is second?” demanded Mabel.
“Randall!” came the reply.
Then there was silence. The girls looked at one another. What they thought, who shall say?
On came the three shells. The cheers increased. There was a din of horns and rattles. The band played madly—no one knew what the tune was—and cared less.
“Steady all!” cried Jerry, as he noticed a tendency to quicken. “Steady all!”
On came the Randall shell. Just a little to her rear was Boxer Hall, struggling desperately and with breaking hearts to offset the disadvantage of overtraining and over-confidence. For that is just what it amounted to. It looked hopeless for them now.
As for Fairview, she had maintained the lead she had unexpectedly gained over Randall, and the eager—almost bursting—hearts in the boat hoped that the co-educational college could row it out unto the end. But there was no disguising the fact to themselves that they were rowing against such a rival as they had never before met.
For a moment after Jerry had given the word to increase the stroke, his chums thought that he would keep them on that for a hundred yards or so, and then hit up the pace still faster. But he did not. Instead, coolly and calmly, he glanced critically at the Fairview shell, and kept on at the same rate.
“Hang it all, why doesn’t he give the word to spurt?” thought Frank, as his broad back rose and fell to the measured rhythm. “We can do it!”
But Jerry was a wise little coxswain. Not for nothing had he spied out the course, so that he knew every foot of it, and by marks previously noted, he could tell exactly how far they were from the finish mark.
Nearer and nearer to it came the eight-oared shells. Boxer Hall was struggling hard to pull up, but for once she had met her match—two, in fact, for it was easy now to see that the race, barring accidents, lay between Randall and Fairview.
“And, oh! May we win!” prayed Tom and his chums. And they could not understand why Jerry would not put them at their limit. True, their hearts were pumping at an abnormal rate, their muscles strained as they never had before, and their breath came labored, and went out gaspingly.
And then, when Coxswain Jerry, with his eager eyes, saw a certain old gnarled tree on the river bank, and when he had noted that Fairview had added another stroke per minute, then and not until then did he give the word.
He had slid down into his seat, feeling the tiller lines as a horseman feels with the reins the mouth of his pet racer. Gently, as if the shell were some delicate machine, did Jerry guide her on the course. Now the time had come!
Up he sat, like one electrified. Through the megaphone strapped to his mouth came the words:
“Row, boys! Row as you never rowed before! Put all you can to the stroke. I call for thirty-three! Give it to ’em! Give it to ’em!”
It seemed as though the Randall shell was suddenly galvanized into action. Reaching forward over their toes, eight sturdy backs bent for the stroke. Then it came.
A pull that seemed to lift the frail shell from the water—a pull that strained on the outriggers—a pull that made the stout oars creak and bend! A stroke that sent the water swirling aft in rings, circles, whirlpools and a smother of foam! A stroke that told!
“Row! Row!” screamed Jerry.
Daring another glance, Frank, at stroke, saw the Fairview boat seemingly at a standstill. But it was not so. It was that Randall had shot up to her.
From the shores, from the boathouse, from the other craft, came a riot of sound—shouts, yells, the tooting of horns, the clatter of rattles.
There was a veritable flower garden of waving colors. The shrill voices of the girls mingled with the hoarser shouts of the men and boys. Whistles blew, and dogs barked to add to the din.
“Row! Row!” Jerry fairly screamed.
“Pick it up, boys!” pleaded the Fairview coxswain. He had not thought that his rivals had this spurt in them.
“Can’t you do it? Can’t you get up to them?” begged Pinky Davenport, of his Boxer lads, and there were unashamed tears in his eyes as he made his last appeal. But Boxer was “all in.”
“Now boys, now!” shouted Jerry. “It’s your last chance! A hundred yards more—only three hundred feet! Row! Row! We must win.”
“Don’t let ’em pass us!” came from the Fairview coxswain. “A few strokes—only a few more!”
The boats were even! Pandemonium had now broken loose. The band was drowned out by shouts. Ruth found herself hammering Madge on the back, and shouting—she knew not what—in her ear. Madge was crying—she did not know why.
As for the Randall lads, they were mere machines. There was no more thought left in them. They saw nothing, but each man in front of him viewed his fore-man’s back—Frank could not see the face of Jackson, but he could hear his rasping voice.
“Row! Row!”
How Frank heaved! How he dug at the giving water at the end of his blade as though he would tear it from the river and fling it aloft in a rainbow arch.
And how Bricktop Molloy took up the stroke, his honest Irish face wet with sweat—his red hair plastered down on his forehead. Back and forth he bent. After him came Holly Cross picking up the stroke masterly—then Kindlings—good old Kindlings with something of the fire of his name in his sturdy muscles—then Housenlager—all the desire for horseplay gone from him. Then Sid, who had been shifted back to Number Three almost at the last moment. Then Phil, and then Tom.
And how they rowed! Surely the ancient gods—surely even Hercules at his twelve labors—never toiled more Titanically than these eight rowers. No galley slave, chained to the oar, with the vessel on fire above him, with the shrieks of the dying in his ears, the stench of Greek fire in his nostrils, ever rowed more desperately.
“Row! Row!” screamed Jerry.
“Row! Row!” echoed Roger Barns.
The finish line was but a hundred feet away. Slowly, oh, so slowly, did the Randall boat creep up on her rival.
Now she was past! Another electric thrill went through Jerry.
“Row! Row!” he screamed, and his voice was hoarse. His hands, tense and gripped, were clasped so tightly on the tiller ropes, that afterward they had to loosen them for him. The muscles had gone dead, but he steered with the skill of a veteran.
It grew black before Tom’s eyes. He felt that his lungs were bursting. Frank knew that if he dipped the oar in the water again he would not have strength to pull it out.
But, somehow he did!
And then with one last spurt, a spurt that seemed to wrench the very roots of their hearts, a pull that seemed to tear their very muscles loose, the lads in the Randall shell sent their boat over the finish line a winner—a winner by half a length—a winner! They were the eight-oared victors!
And, as they realized this—as it came to them—their eyes that saw not lighted up—their faces, seamed and lined with the contracted muscles, broke into smiles, and then Tom toppled over on his oar, and Frank fell weakly back on Molloy.
“Easy there, me lad, easy,” panted Bricktop. “It’s all over. You collapsed at the right minute! Oh, wow, but I’m thirsty!”
Jerry Jackson was struggling with the tiller lines wound about his nerveless hands. Ready chums loosed them, and helped him from the shell onto a boat, the crew having recovered sufficiently to put their broad blades out on the water to steady the shell.
And then, following the hush that came after the hysterical outburst which greeted the winners, came floating over the heads of the great throng:
“Aut Vincere! Aut Mori!”
But Randall had conquered, though she had nearly died.
Somehow the crew heard the cheers for themselves, for their coach and for the plucky little coxswain. Somehow they managed to cheer Fairview and Boxer Hall, and then they were hurried into the dressing rooms.
“I knew you could do it! I knew you could do it!” cried Mr. Lighton, capering about like a boy. “I knew we could make a rowing crew in one season with the material we had.”
“Faith, an’ ye did, me lad!” declared Bricktop, while Housenlager feebly punched Tom in the ribs, a bit of horseplay that our hero was too tired to resent.
“Someone to see Mr. Parsons!” called Wallops, the college messenger, who was helping out at the boathouse. He peered into the anteroom of the dressing apartments.
“I can’t see anyone now,” declared Tom. “Who is it?”
“He says his name is Farson, and——”
“The jeweler!” cried Tom. “Show him in!” and he came from under a shower and grabbed up some garments. “There must be something doing!” he added to Sid and Phil, who had heard the words.
Somewhat bewildered by the athletic throng about him, the jeweler entered.
“Where are you, Mr. Parsons?” he asked.
“Here!” cried Tom. “What is it?”
“Everything! I have just received word from the police that they have arrested that pawnbroker. He has all the Boxer Hall cups, and most of the other jewelry. Nearly everything is recovered. All but that old-fashioned brooch you told me about. That he says he never had.”
“And he’s right,” added Tom. “I recovered that. But who took the things?”
“Blasdell. The island caretaker took them out of my box when the boat landed on the island, and disposed of them. Then he hid the pawn tickets in the shack, taking away the brooch he had previously hidden there.
“Blasdell has been arrested too. He has made a full confession. He and the pawnbroker have been in with a bad set, and were planning other crimes. But I will soon have nearly everything back. I thought you might be glad to know, so I came here as soon as I heard. I had to wait until after the race, though.”
“We are glad to hear the news,” spoke Frank. “So Mendez is not in it after all.”
“No, the confessions of the others completely clear him. I must go tell the Boxer Hall boys the good news.”
“And it is almost as good news to us as to them,” said Tom, as he went in to finish dressing.
The regatta was over. Randall, in spite of heavy odds and in spite of losing all but one race, was proclaimed champion of the Tonoka Lake League.
“But we’ll do you next year!” prophesied Pinky Davenport. “I think the loss of our cups was a hoodoo to us.”
“Maybe,” admitted Tom. “But next year is—well, next year, and we’re not greenies any more.”
“I guess you never were,” admitted his rival.
“And now let’s go see the girls, and tell them how sorry we are that we beat them,” proposed Sid.
If the girls felt badly they did not show it much.
“What I can’t understand,” said Phil, a little later, when he and his chums, and his sister and her chums were talking it all over at a little supper in Haddonfield, “what I can’t understand is how Boswell knew Ruth had lost her pin, and wanted to give her another.”
“He didn’t know it—stupid!” exclaimed Ruth, with a blush. “Only Tom knew it.”
“But Boswell was going to give you a pin.”
“Oh, can’t a fellow give a girl a pin without knowing that she has lost one or you making a fuss over it?” asked Sid.
“But—but——” faltered Phil.
“He heard that I was fond of old-fashioned jewelry,” explained Ruth, blushing, “and I suppose, instead of—er—well—say candy, he hunted up an old-style pin. He had bought one for his mother from Mendez, and wanted one for me. It was lucky that Blasdell did not pawn my pin with the other stuff. Instead he sold it to Mendez, who, in turn, sold it to Mr. Boswell, and Tom—well, Tom did the rest.”
“And you were without grandmother’s pin all that while, and never let on!” cried Phil. “Oh, you’re a sly one, Sis!”
“And the colored handkerchiefs, and Boswell were useless as clues,” went on Sid. “They were just false alarms. But I wonder why Mendez was so anxious to see Boswell that day we went on our little picnic?”
“Mendez explained that,” said Tom. “He had had some intimation that his selling of smuggled cigars was likely to be dangerous, and, as Boswell had bought some he wanted to talk about it, and get his advice. That was all. It seems that when Boswell and the Mexican were together on the island one day Mendez cut his finger and Boswell tore off a strip of the silk handkerchief. Boswell told me that.”
“And I guess that explains everything,” remarked Phil. “I want some more ice-cream. We’ve broken training now, you know.”
And so the merry little party feasted and laughed and softly sang their college songs until the girls protested that they must get back, or Miss Philock—well, various opinions were expressed about that lady.
“Stop that infernal clock!” grunted Tom, a little later, as he lay half asleep on the old sofa in the common room.
“Stop it yourself,” murmured Phil, sprawled in one easy chair, while Frank occupied another. Sid had declared himself done up after the race, and had gone to bed. From his room he murmured in a sleepy voice:
“Sounds like Jerry calling—‘Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!’ doesn’t it?”
“Cut it out!” said Phil. “I don’t want to see an oar for six months again.”
“It will be pigskin punts from now on,” spoke Tom, as he returned from jabbing a toothpick into the clock’s interior, and turned over to doze again.
“And then good old Winter!” exclaimed Frank. “I say, fellows, what’s the matter with getting up some iceboat races,” and he galvanized into uprightness.
“Talk about it to-morrow,” sleepily murmured Sid, but the suggestion bore fruit, as you may learn by reading the next volume of this series, to be called “Rivals of the Ice; A Story of Winter Sports at College.” It will tell how, after a strenuous football season, the lads formed an ice league, for skating, hockey playing, and ice-yacht racing.
Outside the college there was singing and the building of bonfires to celebrate the victory of the crew. But in their room, four of the eight-oared victors dozed dreamily on, living over again in fancy that strenuously-fought-out race which they had so labored over. And there, for a time, we will leave them.
THE END
THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES
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