It was just as they were about to start off in the little gasoline launch, which, strange to say, had been behaving wonderfully well that day, that they saw Mendez, the Mexican, rowing toward them in a small boat. He seemed in much of a hurry.
“Senors and senoritas!” he hailed them. “Wait a moment, I pray of you.”
“Gracious—I hope nothing has happened at home!” exclaimed Madge Tyler, for her mother was not at the cottage.
“Perhaps it’s a telegram for some of us,” suggested Ruth. “Oh, dear, I do hope I don’t have to go home.”
They all regarded the approaching Mexican curiously.
“Pardon,” he began with a smile that showed all his white teeth, “but I seek Senor Boswell. Is he with you?”
“With us? No,” answered Tom. “He doesn’t train in with our crowd.”
“Most likely he’s having tea on the lawn, and talking about ‘beastly rotters,’” suggested Sid.
“Oh, Sid!” exclaimed Ruth. “He isn’t such a bad sort.”