“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.