# The Eight-Oared Victors/Chapter 21
#### CHAPTER XXI
##### IN THE SHACK

"Jove!" murmured Tom, as he hurried on, "what have I stumbled upon?"
For the time being his thoughts were in a whirl, for like a flash it had come to him that the pin he had seen being handled by Mendez and Boswell was Ruth's missing brooch.
"I couldn't get close enough for a good look, but it sure was an old-fashioned pin, from their talk, and it looked like the one I've seen Ruth wear. The one with the secret spring."
He walked on a little farther.
"Now what's to be done?" he asked himself. "I guess I'll sit down and think this thing out."
Rapidly Tom went over in his mind what he had seen and heard.
"This seems to let Boswell out of it," he murmured. "And I'm glad of it—for the honor of Randall," and Tom thought of the events that had taken place some time ago, when the honor of Randall seemed to be threatened, events which I have narrated in the book of that title.
​"If Boswell bought the pin of Mendez, then it must be the Mexican who is the man we're after," Tom went on. "He deals in jewelry, though most of it is that filigree silver stuff that I don't fancy. And Boswell wants Mendez to get him another old-fashioned pin like the one he already has. I wonder who for?"
But Tom did not wonder long on this point.
"The insolent puppy!" he exclaimed, clenching his fists. "If he tries to give Ruth a pin I'll——"
And then he calmed down, for he realized that, aside from the ethics, or good taste of the matter, Boswell had as much right to present Ruth with a token as had he himself.
"I guess I'd better reason along a new line," he told himself. "I'll have to let the boys know about this, and——"
Then, like a flash something else occurred to him.
"No, I can't do that," he said. "Phil isn't supposed to know that Ruth has lost her pin—that is, not yet. It would be too bad if the grand mother were to turn cranky, because of the loss of the brooch, and give her pearls to someone else—at least until I can buy Ruth some pearls myself—and that's a long way off, I'm afraid," thought Tom, ruefully.
"No, I've got to play this hand alone," he went ​on. "I can't bring the fellows in—just yet. And I must tell Ruth not to admit that she has lost her brooch—at least, not yet. I may be able to get it back for her. The idea of Boswell having it—at least, I think it's the same one.
"And then by Jove! If Mendez had the brooch he has the other stuff that was in the jewelry box—the Boxer Hall cups and so on. Tom Parsons, you've stumbled on the solution of the mystery, I do believe. And you've got to work it out alone, for if you tell any of the fellows Ruth's secret will come out. Now, how are you going to do it?"
He pondered on the matter, and the first thing he decided on was that Ruth must be warned not to admit her loss.
"I'll attend to that right away," murmured the lad.
"Why, Tom, is anything the matter?" asked Ruth, when he saw her, a little later, at the Tyler cottage.
"Well, yes, something, but——"
"Oh, is Phil hurt? " and she clasped her hands.
"No, nothing like that. What made you think something was up, Ruth?"
"Because your face told me. What is it?"
"Well, if I were you, I wouldn't tell—just yet—that you haven't your brooch."
"Oh, Tom! Do you mean you think you can get it back?"
​"I think so, but I'm not sure. But don't say anything."
"I won't. Oh! I'm only too glad not to have to admit it, though I'm afraid it's only postponing the fatal day. But what have you found?"
"I can't tell you Ruth—just yet. I've got quite a problem to work out. Later on I may need your help."
"Why, can't some of the boys?—oh, I see, you're keeping my secret for me. That's fine of you!"
"Just wait—that's all," was Tom's final advice. In the exuberance of his youth he imagined, that, should it prove that Boswell had bought Ruth's pin from the Mexican, the brooch could, by some means or other, be recovered.
"And now I am up against it," he went on, still communing with himself, after he had left Ruth. "I can't get the boys to help me, so I've got to go alone. And what's the first thing to be done?"
There were several points that needed clearing up.
"In the first place," reasoned Tom, "if Mendez had the brooch, which was in the jewel box, he has, or had, the other things. The question is—has he them yet? If he sold Boswell the pin he may have sold the other articles. I guess the only thing for me to do is to try and get in his ​shack—when he's not home. It would be a ticklish piece of work to stumble in there, and be searching about, and have him find me. I wonder if I can get in when he's out? He does go out quite often."
Tom went on to camp, and his absentmindedness caused his chums no little wonder, until Sid exclaimed:
"Oh, it's all right—Tom's got the symptoms."
"What symptoms?" demanded our hero.
"The love symptoms. A lovers' quarrel made up is worse than falling in at first. Look out!" for Tom had shied a shoe at his tormentor.
"Practice to-day," announced Frank, the next morning. "Mr. Pierson said he'd be over early and we've got to go down and get the shell. He's going to put us through a course of sprouts today."
"All right," yawned Tom, with a fine appearance of indifference. "But I've got to mix the stuff for cake if I'm going to bake it." He had promised to show his skill in pastry-making. "So if you fellows will go down and get the shell I'll be ready when you come back."
"Three of us can't row a four-oared shell," protested Sid.
"Well, tow it up by the launch, then. I'm not going to have the cake spoiled."
"That's right," declared Frank. "The cook ​is a sacred person. We'll tow up the shell," and they went off, never suspecting their chum.
And how Tom had dissembled! The making of the cake, he knew, had only been a subterfuge, for he had made up his mind he would buy one at the store, and offer some excuse to his chums that the camp-made one had "fallen" which, I believe, is the technical word to use when the top of a cake displays a tendency to lie on the bottom of the pan, and not stand up properly. I was once a camp cook, and some of my friends are still alive to bear witness against me.
Now what Tom planned was this: As soon as his chums were out of the way he decided to enter the Mexican's shack, having learned the evening before, by skillful questioning, that Mendez had some work to do around a distant cottage, and would be away all morning.
"And we'll see what I can find there," murmured Tom, as he set out.
It was an easy matter to enter the shack, at least that part where the Mexican lived. The store section was closed, but Tom knew there was an entrance to it through the main shack.
A carelessly-fastened window gave admittance, and soon after his chums had departed to get the shell (which was kept now in the new college boathouse, that structure having been nearly completed), Tom found himself inside the shack.
​He began rummaging about, taking care not to unduly disturb objects. Tom was looking in a trunk, that appeared to contain some clothing, as well as some of the Mexican drawn-work, and some silks and satins, when he heard a noise outside.
"Someone is coming!" he whispered. "I've got to hide!" and he made a dive under the cot.