# The Eight-Oared Victors/Chapter 33
#### CHAPTER XXXIII
##### MENDEZ EXPLAINS

"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.