BOSWELL'S CHANCE
"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.