“I will, Tom, for I’m thirsty enough to drink even the lemon-pop Mr. Richards sells. Come on,” and the two walked on, the little cloud that had come between them having blown away. But Ruth said nothing about Boswell’s promise to show her his mother’s old-fashioned brooch. Perhaps she thought he had forgotten the matter, and, she reasoned, there was no need of awakening Tom’s jealousy.
It was after Tom had parted from Ruth, with a promise to call that evening with the other boys, that, walking along the island shore, taking a short cut to the camp, he heard voices coming from the direction of the water. He looked through the screen of bushes, and saw Boswell and the Mexican caretaker, sitting in a boat not far from shore. The college lad was handing Mendez something, and by the sun’s rays Tom caught the glitter of gold. At the same time a puff of wind brought their voices plainly to him, the water aiding in carrying the tones.
“Do you think you could get an old-fashioned pin like that?” Boswell was asking. “You know something about jewelry; don’t you?”
“Of a surety, senor. But this would be hard to duplicate. It is very old.”
“I know, but I want one like that, or as near it as possible. Can’t you get one the same place you got that?”
“No, senor, that was the only one there was, and when I sell him to you for your respected mother I regret that I can get no more of him.”
“Where did you get that?” asked Boswell, as he took back from the Mexican what Tom could now see was some sort of breastpin.
“Why do you ask, senor?” retorted the man, quickly.
“Oh, nothing special. Why, you act as though you thought that I was going to accuse you of stealing it.”