AFTER THE RACE.
There was a faint cheer from the shore. Merriwell had won the race, and
the man from Greenville was second. Welch had received a merited
ducking, but was rescued from the water without much trouble.
Welch was furious. Over and over he declared he would have won the race
had not Hodge fouled him, but the judges decided it was his own fault,
as he was seen to deliberately get in Bart’s way.
This silenced him, but he looked sullen and revengeful, and continued to
mutter to himself.
The canoe occupied by Hodge had not been injured by the collision, and
Bart slowly paddled toward shore at Merriwell’s side when the race was
over.
“Well, what do you think about it now?” he asked.
“I think I had the pull of my life to win,” admitted Frank. “I came near
waiting too long before getting down to business.”
“Oh! I felt that one of us stood a good show to win,” said Bart; “but
that was not what I meant.”
“Eh? Then what did you mean?”
“What do you think about Mr. Jim Welch?”
“I think he tried to foul me.”
“Sure.”
“And you prevented it, although I don’t know how you did it, for you
were on the other side of him a few moments before. I was paying
attention strictly to business, and supposed I was passing with Welch
between us. How did you get in there?”
“I will tell you,” said Hodge, in a low tone. “I saw you were coming up
at wonderful speed, for I took the chance of looking round. I realized
that you would be a winner if not interfered with, and that you were
going to pass on the other side of Welch. The moment I realized that,
into my mind flashed the conviction that he would try to keep you from
winning. The man from Greenville was hanging close to you, and there was
a chance that he would beat all of us, unless you had a free course to
the finish. I felt that I had a slim show of winning, so I permitted my
canoe to drop back till I could cross behind Welch just when you were
forging alongside of him. I reserved a certain amount of strength for a
great spurt, and I needed it the moment I got into position. When I saw
him try to foul you, I used every ounce of energy and drove my canoe
into his. That’s all.”
“Well, you did a good job, old man; but I don’t know what the judges
will say about it.”
“I don’t care what they say about it. What I want to know is what you
say about Mr. Jim Welch now. Yesterday he tried to hammer you, to-day he
tried to shoot you, and now, although you saved him from drowning this
morning, he did his best to knock you out of this race. Is he thoroughly
bad or not?”
“He is a rascal, that I will admit, but I do not believe him thoroughly
bad, Bart.”
“Well, you are hard to convince!” cried Hodge, in disgust. “I think you
are stubborn—you will not give up when you know you are wrong.”
“You do not think that, Hodge,” said Merry, reproachfully; “you must
know better.”
Not another word would Bart say about it. He paddled along in sulky
silence, not even giving heed when Frank thanked him for his act in
preventing Welch from fouling.
From their boat the judges announced that Frank Merriwell was the
winner. When Welch protested, they told him he deliberately turned his
canoe in front of Hodge. The fellow could have claimed that Bart was off
his course, but he was cautioned to let it drop, being told that it
would be better to do that, as his attempt at crooked play would be
shown up if he made a fuss about it. So the report went out that the
collision came about because Welch got in Hodge’s course; but those who
saw everything plainly knew this was not the real cause.
For two days Frank Merriwell had kept his identity secret as far as
possible, being led to do so because of his experiences in Camden,
Rockland and Belfast. Now, however, everybody was asking the name of the
winner, and it passed from one to another that it was the great Yale
athlete, Frank Merriwell.
Two baseball teams had watched the race from the shore. They were the
Newports and the M. C. I.’s, of Pittsfield, and the most of them had
heard of Merriwell. When they knew he was there at Camp Benson they were
eager to get a close look at him. Hundreds of others experienced the
same eagerness, and thus it came about that there was a rush of people
toward that point of shore that Frank approached.
Some one proposed a cheer for Frank Merriwell, and it was given with a
hearty will. Then a man cried:
“Why, he’s one of them Sandy Point dudes that everybody said wouldn’t
cut no ice in the race.”
“Mebbe he didn’t cut no ice,” cried another, “but he cut water enough to
win first purse.”
This caused a laugh.
There were scores of pretty girls in the throng, and they regarded the
handsome victor admiringly. Merriwell could have flirted with almost any
of them had he chosen, although he would have needed a proper
introduction to not a few before they would have recognized him.
At Camp Benson, however, there seemed to be an unusual freedom, and it
was not difficult to get acquainted with almost anyone. Young ladies who
would not have thought of such impropriety elsewhere often ventured to
flirt mildly with strangers.
Bruce Browning was lounging in the shade beneath a tree, with Dunnerwust
at his side, awaiting Frank.
“Well, Merry,” he called, “you did the trick, but I had begun to think
you were not in it.”
“Yaw,” nodded Hans, “you hat pegun to think I vos nod in id, but ven you
got der sdart der odder veller on I seen how der peesness peen goin’ to
end. You vos a lulu, Vrankie!”
Hans’ dialect caused those in his vicinity to smile or laugh outright.
Frank came ashore, and immediately he was surrounded by the ball
players.
“Mr. Merriwell,” said the captain of the Newport team, “we would like to
have you umpire the game for us this afternoon. It begins right away.”
“It will be a great favor, Mr. Merriwell,” declared the captain of the
M. C. I.’s, with more politeness. “I assure you we shall regard it as a
great favor.”
“The position is not a pleasant one,” said Frank. “I’d much rather look
on and see the game.”
“We will pay you if you——” began the Newport captain.
Frank stopped him.
“You cannot hire me for money to umpire,” he said, promptly. “If I did
so——”
“Will you?” cried several.
“Go ahead, Merry,” said Hodge.
“Well,” laughed Frank, “I’ll do it.”
One minute later criers were running over the ground announcing that the
ball game that afternoon would be umpired by the great Yale pitcher,
Frank Merriwell.
Frank was given time to change his clothes, and then, still accompanied
by Hodge, he went onto the ball ground.
The ground was not fenced, and it was completely surrounded by a throng
of spectators. The M. C. I.’s were practicing.
As Frank appeared, somebody shouted:
“Here comes Merriwell!”
There was a great clapping of hands.
Frank was dressed in a spotless white flannel suit, and he made a
handsome appearance.
The captains of the two teams approached him, and he asked them about
ground rules. They gave him the desired information, and then he was
provided with a fresh Spaulding in an unbroken box.
The Newports had practiced already, and the time for the game to begin
was past, so Merriwell stepped out behind the plate and called:
“Play ball!”
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