# The Eight-Oared Victors/Chapter 32
#### CHAPTER XXXII
##### 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 rubdown, 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 horesplay 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.