The Eight-Oared Victors/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII
RUTH'S LOSS
"Silence number seven—eyes in the boat—on the man in front of you!"
Thus the coach called to Tom, but there was no sting in his words, and the tall baseball pitcher of Randall knew that it was for the good of himself and the crew. Nothing is so important in a race as to save one's wind, and to keep one's eyes fairly glued on the back of the man in front of one. For on unison, and in rowing exactly in time with every other man in the shell, does the race depend.
"Never mind Boxer Hall," went on Mr. Lighton. "We're going to beat her, but we won't unless we learn how to keep our eyes in our own boat. Steady there, Sid!"
On came the Boxer Hall eight. They were rowing down the stream, as were our friends, but the rival college shell was in the rear, having gone up stream earlier in the day, being now on the return trip.
"Don't try to race them when they pass us," cautioned Mr. Lighton, who had not even turned his head to see the approaching shell behind him. "It will be a temptation, I know, but we are not ready for a spurt yet."
"Are we going to let them pass us?" demanded the rich lad, almost forgetting to row.
"Don't talk!" came sharply from the coxswain. "It's your business to row, Boswell, if you want to be in this eight. You almost lost a stroke then, and see how the boat slews! I have to shift the rudder to correct it, and in a race that might mean the loss of considerable distance. Pick up your stroke, and don't race!"
The face of the rich lad expressed disappointment, and his was not the only one. Certainly it was a bit galling to let Boxer Hall—their ancient rival—pass them, and the first time Randall was out in her eight, too!
But afterward all admitted the wisdom of the course taken by the coach. They were in no condition to race, and, green as most of them were as to how to behave in a tricky shell, they might have had an upset. Not they would have minded that, but they would have been the laughing-stock of Boxer Hall.
On came the rivals, the oars being feathered beautifully. They took the water with that peculiar chugging sound that always denotes a well-trained crew.
"Listen, all of you," advised Mr. Lighton in a low voice. "That's what I mean by the 'rotten egg' sound. It's when the oar blade is plunged under water as you begin your stroke. Try to attain it—after they pass."
The Boxer Hall lads, rowing perhaps a trifle faster than they had been doing, sitting perhaps a trifle straighter, and pulling a bit harder—a natural showing off—came opposite the shell containing our friends of Randall.
"Want to try a little spurt?" called Dave Ogden, from the coxswain's seat.
"No, thank you—we're just out for practice. It's our first spin," replied Mr. Lighton. "Some other time."
"Why not now?" murmured Boswell.
"Silence in the bow!" exclaimed the coach, sharply.
"You're a martinet!" retorted the rich lad, but in so low a voice that only Phil, sitting in front of him, heard.
Not a lad in the Boxer Hall shell spoke, though several nodded in friendly fashion at their acquaintances in the Randall boat. They were evidently well trained, and were saving their wind.
On they rowed, passing those who hoped to prove themselves formidable rivals by the following Fall. And in spite of the command of Mr. Lighton for all eyes to be in the boat, hardly a lad of the eight but glanced enviously at the smoothly-swinging shell, that looked so trim and so neat. For, in spite of the work expended on the second-hand craft, it showed what it was.
"But it won't be long before we have a better one," thought Tom.
"Row easy, all," came the command from the coach, when the Boxer Hall boat had passed around a bend of the stream. The stroke was slackened, to the relief of all, for, though they were sturdy lads, rowing was a form of exercise to which they were not much accustomed, especially in a shell. The strangeness of the seats, the toe stretchers, and the outriggers added to their confusion, so that the fatigue was almost as much one of attention and brain power as of muscle.
"Now for a turn against the current," remarked the coach, when they had gone on a mile or two more. "This will give you some resistance to work against."
The shell was turned, after a fashion, Mr. Lighton being anxious not to bring too much strain on the outriggers, the turning action always involving this.
"Give way!" came the command, and the shell started back up stream.
This was harder work, but the coach, desiring to know if he had any members on the crew who were likely to prove of less service than the others, kept them all up to a good stroke. There was some panting when the float was reached, a larger crowd than before being there to welcome the first tentative crew. But, to do the lads justice, not one but had stood the strain well, even the fault-finding Boswell.
"Well rowed for the first time!" complimented Mr. Lighton. "Now, then, a good shower bath and a rub-down, and then some light exercise to keep from getting stiff, for you have used muscles to-day that seldom came into play before. Now who's for another crew?" and he picked out eight more lads, who went off in the shell.
"That was great!" cried Tom, as, with his three particular chums he started for the gymnasium.
"It sure was," agreed Sid. "I never thought I could do so well."
"And I never knew I could do so rotten!" came from Frank. "I used to think I was some pumpkins with an oar, but this has taken all the conceit out of me."
"Same here," agreed Phil. "But I think we're on the right road."
"Boxer Hall did fine," went on Tom. "I give them credit for that. I wish we'd started at rowing years ago. It's a shame it was so neglected at Randall."
"It was dandy of those old grads to think to put us in the way of it once more," went on Sid.
"We'll have to pass them a vote of thanks."
Thus talking the boys went into the gymnasium, whence they emerged a little later, glowing, and feeling the spring and buoyancy of youth.
"Hello, what's this?" asked Phil, as they entered their room, and saw some letters on the table.
"From the girls!" cried Tom, as he saw a certain hand-writing.
"Here, you've got mine!" declared Frank, making a grab for the epistle in Sid's hand.
"Beg your pardon old man—so I have. I'll trade," and soon the four lads were busy perusing four notes.
"They're going to have a dance," spoke Tom. "A week from to-night. Will we go? I guess yes! That is, I don't think we have any date for that evening."
"If I have I'll break it," said Sid, quickly.
"Listen to the old misogynist—him as wouldn't used to speak to a girl!" cried Phil. "Oh, what a change! What a change!"
"Dry up!" commanded Sid, making a reach for his chum, who nimbly escaped by leaping behind the sofa.
"Say, this is pretty indefinite," went on Tom. "They just ask us to come, and don't say who's to take who, or anything like that."
"And there are a new lot of fellows at Fairview," said Frank. "I move that we go over and make sure of our girls. I don't want to get left."
"I should have thought Ruth would be more definite," put in Phil. "But say, we've got time to run over and back before grub. Come on."
Regardless of the fact that they had just come in from a hard row, they soon got into their "semi-best suits," as Sid called them, and hurried to the trolley that would land them at the co-educational institution.
"There are the girls!" exclaimed Tom, who, being in the lead, as he and his chums crossed the campus a little later, saw the four; Ruth, Madge Tyler, Mabel Harrison and Helen Newton. They paired off—as they always did—and soon were walking in different directions. Tom was with Ruth Clinton, and after the matter of the dance had been settled, and she had agreed to accompany him, as doubtless the other girls had done for the other lads, the tall pitcher, with a glance at his pretty companion remarked:
"New pin, Ruth? Where did you get it?" and he looked at her collar-fastening.
"Hush!" she exclaimed, looking quickly around. "Don't tell Phil!"
"Why not?" Tom wanted to know. "Doesn't he want you to have jewelry?"
"Yes, but listen, you remember that dear old-fashioned brooch I used to wear? The one with the secret spring in the back, that, when you pressed on it, showed a little picture of me. Do you remember that?"
"Do I? I should say I did! And how you dropped it at a dance once, and I had to crawl down under the palms in the conservatory to get it."
"And you in your dress suit, poor boy!" and Ruth laughed. "I should say you might well remember it. But, Tom, this is serious," and she grew grave at once. "I've lost that brooch!"
"Lost it—how?"
"Or, rather. It's been stolen, and I don't dare tell Phil. You know the clasp was broken, or something was the matter with it. That's the reason it fell off that time you had to hunt for it."
"And did it drop again? Tell me where, and I'll search until"
"No, Tom, it wouldn't do any good," and Ruth sighed.
"Why not?"
"Because it's been stolen!"
"Stolen!"
"Yes. Listen. I feel dreadfully about it. You know it was a gift from my grandmother. She is a dear, old-fashioned lady, and she has lots of lovely old-fashioned jewelry. She always said she disliked the present styles, and when she gave me that pin she made me promise to wear it, and never be ashamed of it, even if it was a century old.
"Of course I promised, for the pin was a beauty. And grandmother always said that if I took good care of it, and wore it whenever I went out, she would leave me her lovely string of pearls. Of course I would have worn the pin without that. And now it's been taken!"
"Taken! By someone here at college?"
"Hush, not so loud! I gave it to a jeweler, a Mr. Farson, in Haddonfield, to repair the clasp, and I just got word from him to-day that it was taken. So I had to buy another pin to fasten my collar with, and I'm so afraid Phil will notice it; or that grandmother may hear about it! She'll say I'm careless."
"Did Farson have your brooch?" cried Tom.
"Yes. Why?"
"And did he tell you how it was taken?"
"Well, he said It was taken with a lot of other things that he had collected from his customers to repair. He offered to get me another, but of course I never can get on like that."
"Say!" exclaimed Tom, greatly excited. "Your pin must have been in that box he left in his motorboat, when the craft was wrecked on Crest Island and when the Boxer Hall cups were taken. By Jove! This brings that robbery home to me all right!" and Tom looked strangely at Ruth.