THE CANOE RACE.
It was the week of the annual muster of the Grand Army at Camp Benson,
on Lake Sebasticook. Every cottage was occupied and a large number of
tents were pitched. Gray-headed veterans, heroes of the war, had
gathered there from all over the State of Maine. Every day there were
parades, a band concert, and a dance in the large hall that had been
built for that purpose. The cottages and tents were decorated with
bunting and flags. Yellow-eyed beans, baked in a “bean hole,” were on
every bill of fare. Excursion trains stopped at the little platform
station, bringing large numbers of visitors from Pittsfield, Newport,
Corinna, Dexter and other towns. The lake steamer was making regular
trips between the camp and Newport, and crowds came to the grounds in
teams, on foot and on bicycles.
Each day in the afternoon there was a ball game and other sports of a
nature to interest all. The band played “The Star-Spangled Banner,”
“Marching Through Georgia,” “Yankee Doodle,” and other patriotic airs.
The old vets got together and fought over the battles of long ago.
Hundreds of young people flocked to the ground and enjoyed the pleasures
of the occasion. The country girls were red-cheeked and pretty, and the
country lads were sturdy, manly-looking young fellows, such as make the
best soldiers when in time of trouble the country calls her loyal sons
to arms.
Not a few fashionable people visited Camp Benson and enjoyed themselves
thoroughly.
They were not all countrymen there.
Merriwell and his friends had heard there was “fun” at Camp Benson, and
that was one reason why they stopped at Lake Sebasticook. They had not
been able to hire a cottage anywhere near the camp, and so they took the
one on Sandy Point, although it was several miles away. Hearing there
were to be canoe races at the camp, Frank looked about to obtain some
canoes, and he was fortunate enough to secure four, although he was
forced to pay an exorbitant price for the use of them that week. Three
of them were single canoes, for racing purposes. The fourth was the
birch in which Merry and Hodge had gone out fishing.
On the following day Frank’s entire party was at Camp Benson, for this
afternoon the canoe races were to take place. Merry, Hodge and Diamond
had resolved to enter the races.
First, however, there was a sailing race, and this they did not enter.
They took pains to get into the following race.
There were nine starters, of which our friends made three. Two were from
Newport, one from Pittsfield, one from Corinna, one from Foxcroft and
one from Greenville, on Moosehead Lake. It was generally believed that
the Greenville man would win, although it was said that Jim Welch, of
Newport, would give him a hot pull.
The race was set to take place at three o’clock in the afternoon, but it
was twenty minutes later when all the contestants lined up at the
starting point.
The shore of the lake was thronged with spectators, and the band was
playing a lively air near the dance hall, the music floating over the
water on the gentle breeze.
In the lineup Merriwell and his friends had formed together. They were
stripped to trousers, shirts and caps. Frank was laughing and joking,
but Hodge and Diamond looked grim and determined.
The man from Greenville was a long-haired, weather-tanned chap, with a
hard, knotty arm and broad shoulders. Certainly he did look like a
formidable antagonist.
Some of the contestants were inclined to guy Merry and his friends. They
cautioned them not to capsize, asked them if they could swim, told them
they might do better to get out and push their canoes, and tried to have
sport with them generally.
Diamond did not relish this sort of chaffing, and the hot flush on his
cheeks showed he was irritated. Hodge held his anger down, while Frank
seemed to regard it as part of the fun.
“One of us must win this race!” grated the Virginian, sullenly. “They
take us for a lot of flubs. I paddled a canoe almost as soon as I
learned to walk.”
“Keep cool,” cautioned Merry. “It won’t do any good to get angry, and it
may cause you to lose the race.”
“How can a fellow keep cool, when these chumps are blowing their wind at
him! I feel like punching a few of them!”
“Never mind. If you win, it will make them feel cheap enough.”
“Welch is in the line,” said Hodge, in a low tone.
“I see him.”
“Wonder if he is any good?”
“Somebody said he’d be the one to give the Greenville chap a hard pull.”
“Then look out for him, Merriwell.”
“How?”
“You are bound to be in the van at the finish. He may try some kind of a
trick.”
“Oh! I guess not. He won’t have a chance.”
“Fellows like him make chances.”
“You are expecting too much from him. I think he’ll keep his place. He
recovered pretty quick from his ducking this morning.”
“Get ready!” exclaimed Diamond, poising his paddle; “the starter is
going to give the signal.”
There was some further delay about getting all the canoes in line, and
then the starter stood up in his boat and lifted his pistol in the air.
“Ready!” he cried.
The paddles were poised.
Crack!
When the pistol spoke, they were off in a bunch.
Almost immediately, however, Jack Diamond began to forge ahead, fairly
sending his canoe flying over the surface of the lake. He handled his
paddle with strength and skill, and he proved a surprise at the very
start.
There was a cheer from shore and the fluttering of handkerchiefs and
waving of hats. The band played its liveliest air.
Merriwell paddled steadily and easily from the start, keeping well up
with the body of the contestants, but not making any great effort to
gain thus early in the race.
Hodge worked steadily, but was not particularly graceful in his
movements. He was a stout, sturdy fellow, but no one had picked him out
as a possible winner.
The Greenville man paddled in a style that was the poetry of motion, and
sent his canoe darting along without any apparent trouble. There seemed
every reason why he should be regarded as an almost certain victor.
Welch showed his skill, and he did not let the man from Greenville gain
an inch on him. Early in the race he regarded that man as his only
dangerous rival; but there was to come a time before long when he would
see there were others in the race.
Frank saw, at the very outset, that Diamond had allowed his anger to get
the better of his judgment, and he felt that the Virginian could not
hold out as he had started.
When half of the course had been covered three of the contestants were
falling behind. Diamond still held the lead, but now Welch began to
press him, with the Greenville man hot after Welch. Merriwell was
fourth, although but slightly in advance of Hodge.
Suddenly Frank was surprised to discover that Bart was at his side—was
passing him. Hodge was putting in his best work at that point, and the
way he forged ahead brought faint cheers from the shore. He overtook the
Greenville man, passed him, and then he and Welch raced for the lead.
Diamond began to fail. He had started out too hard, and the strain was
beginning to tell on him. He held the lead as long as possible, but
Welch and Hodge finally passed him. Then he dropped behind the man from
Greenville.
Jack found Merriwell at his side.
“Get into it, Frank!” he panted. “I’m out! Can’t keep it up! Push them,
Merry!”
“It’s time,” were the only words that came from Frank.
Steadily and surely he crept up on those in advance. He passed the man
from the Lake region, and then the only ones ahead of him were Hodge and
Welch.
The end of the race was near, and Welch was leading Bart by nearly half
a length. It looked as if he was a sure winner.
But now Merriwell came up with amazing speed. Soon he was pressing those
in advance, and still he continued to gain, although both Welch and
Hodge seemed straining every nerve.
For one moment Welch glanced over his shoulder. He saw Merriwell coming,
with the Greenville man working like a Trojan to hold close to him.
At that moment Jim Welch began to realize that Merriwell stood a good
chance of winning. Welch knew that he was doing his level best, and yet
Frank was gaining.
Anger flamed in the fellow’s heart.
“He shan’t win!” he grated.
He made a final spurt that carried him ahead of Hodge, but still
Merriwell came on. Welch saw that Frank must pass him just before the
end of the course was reached. A determination seized upon him. He would
foul Merriwell. Hodge was behind and would be stopped by them. That
would give the race to the man from Greenville.
Having decided on this treacherous course, Welch was not long in putting
the plan into operation. Frank was passing when, with a sharp swoop of
the paddle, Welch whirled his canoe to cut Merriwell off.
But Bart Hodge was watching for that trick, and he had reserved a
certain amount of strength for the critical moment. Now he seemed to
cause his canoe to leap forward, and its sharp prow struck the side of
the one Welch occupied, smashing it like an eggshell. A second later Jim
Welch was in the water, and Merriwell sped on to victory, a sure winner
at the last moment!
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