“But—but——” faltered Phil.
“He heard that I was fond of old-fashioned jewelry,” explained Ruth, blushing, “and I suppose, instead of—er—well—say candy, he hunted up an old-style pin. He had bought one for his mother from Mendez, and wanted one for me. It was lucky that Blasdell did not pawn my pin with the other stuff. Instead he sold it to Mendez, who, in turn, sold it to Mr. Boswell, and Tom—well, Tom did the rest.”
“And you were without grandmother’s pin all that while, and never let on!” cried Phil. “Oh, you’re a sly one, Sis!”
“And the colored handkerchiefs, and Boswell were useless as clues,” went on Sid. “They were just false alarms. But I wonder why Mendez was so anxious to see Boswell that day we went on our little picnic?”
“Mendez explained that,” said Tom. “He had had some intimation that his selling of smuggled cigars was likely to be dangerous, and, as Boswell had bought some he wanted to talk about it, and get his advice. That was all. It seems that when Boswell and the Mexican were together on the island one day Mendez cut his finger and Boswell tore off a strip of the silk handkerchief. Boswell told me that.”
“And I guess that explains everything,” remarked Phil. “I want some more ice-cream. We’ve broken training now, you know.”
And so the merry little party feasted and laughed and softly sang their college songs until the girls protested that they must get back, or Miss Philock—well, various opinions were expressed about that lady.
“Stop that infernal clock!” grunted Tom, a little later, as he lay half asleep on the old sofa in the common room.
“Stop it yourself,” murmured Phil, sprawled in one easy chair, while Frank occupied another. Sid had declared himself done up after the race, and had gone to bed. From his room he murmured in a sleepy voice:
“Sounds like Jerry calling—‘Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!’ doesn’t it?”