THE WINNING OF BUSTER
"Ho! ho! ho! hi! hi! hi! _veni! vidi! vici!_ Columbia!"
Herman Hooker was drilling his shouters up on the river bank, and
their concerted voices came in waves of sound to the hundreds who were
thronging about the boathouse of the young athletes.
Under the direction of Chief Hogg a rope barrier had been stretched so
as to keep the curious throng at a certain distance. Far and near had
the news gone in connection with the attempted burning of the building.
Visitors from Clifford and Bellport were just as vigorous in their
denunciation of the outrage as the citizens of Columbia.
"This sort of thing has got to be stopped, or else sport will be killed
in this section!" declared one leading man from the town up the river.
Frank Allen heard it, and felt satisfied that a movement would soon be
inaugurated that must prevent the making of open wagers on any sort of
school sport.
"Perhaps after all this last affair may turn out a good thing," he
remarked to Roderic Seymour, who stood near him, clad in his scant
rowing costume, consisting of a sleeveless tunic, a pair of short
trousers coming above the knee, and a pair of low shoes with rubber
soles.
"So I was thinking. But it was a mean game, and I'd hate to be in
the shoes of the fellow who tried it, if the boys ever caught him,"
returned Roderic.
"They'd like to tar and feather him. I've heard some ferocious threats
passed around. But unfortunately we haven't a bit of evidence to
connect any one with it," Frank remarked.
"How about Buster--didn't he see enough of the fellow in the house
before he smacked him, to tell what he was like?" asked Seymour.
"He says not. It was nearly dark, remember. And then besides, Buster
had just been roused out of a sound sleep, and you couldn't expect that
he would be able to see much under such circumstances," replied Frank,
who was looking around as if in search of some one.
"Miss anybody?" queried Seymour, anxiously.
"Why, yes, I haven't seen Lanky around since he first came down this
morning. Have you noticed him?" asked Frank, in return.
"The last time I remember seeing him he was poking among the several
power boats below there--the ones that are going to run in the race,
you know. He seemed mighty interested in those boats. Thinking of
getting his dad to invest in one, do you know, Frank?"
The other smiled broadly and nodded his head.
"I understand what's on his mind. You know Lanky is the most stubborn
chap in Columbia. When he wants to do a thing, nothing is going to keep
him out. More than that I don't care to say just now. He knows what
he's doing, I reckon."
"Say, did you ever see such a glorious sight as the Harrapin river
seems to be just now. Look at the boats moving every way, and the banks
just crammed with excited people. This is the greatest Fourth ever
known," remarked Seymour, his eyes kindling with pleasure.
"I only hope that when the sun goes down the boys of Columbia High
will have cause to set that monster bonfire burning. Hear 'em shout!
Isn't that inspiring music, though? We've just _got_ to win that
eight-oared race, Rod!" exclaimed Frank, with his set jaws denoting
determination and grit beyond the ordinary.
"And I'd say we would do it without a doubt, only for one thing,"
responded the other, lowering his voice cautiously.
"Jonsey?" went on Frank, solicitously. "I'm afraid of him. He is
heart and soul in the game, and would pull his heart out to come in
ahead of the other two boats; but gameness alone isn't everything. The
excitement will be too much for him. If there had been time I'd have
tried out Ginger Harper to take his place."
"It's a pity you didn't, that's all. But Jonsey can pull like a fiend,
and let's hope he lasts through. Once we're up around the head of the
island it will come easier on us all. Still, he seems to be the weak
link in the chain."
Others coming around just then, the confidential conversation was
brought to an end. Already some of the minor races were being
engineered, for the length of the programme necessitated an early
start. Other interesting things had been scheduled for that afternoon,
and it was intended to finish all the river events before noon.
Half a dozen entered for the canoe races, which were fiercely
contested. When a Clifford lad managed, by dint of clever work, to
bring his little craft to the stake first, and was declared winner, the
shouts of his friends told that there must have been a general exodus
of Clifford people to Columbia on this wonderful Fourth.
After that came the laughable tub race. There were just four
contestants in this race, all of them apparently spry chaps but Buster.
Because of his bulk he was considered fit sport for all the strangers.
"Look at the sportive elephant!" shouted one fellow who wore the
Clifford ribbon on his straw hat.
"'Taint fair," shouted another, this time from Bellport; "we've only
entered one to a tub and Columbia has rolled three in one."
"Watch out for that feller! He's Buster Billings, and they say he can
paddle a wash tub like fun! It comes natural, because his daddy runs
the only laundry in town!"
"What's the course?" demanded a stranger.
"Across the river and back. Got to fight the current too. It's no
cinch, boys. I tried it once, and kept turning around all the time.
There they go! Hurrah!"
With the crack of the pistol the four contestants began to paddle
frantically, amid a howling chorus of encouragement. The excitement
grew in volume as it was seen that the paddlers appeared to keep pretty
well together.
They splashed water upon one another, and each did everything possible
to further his own progress at the expense of the rest.
Men, women and young people were shouting until the tears came. But the
four occupants of the revolving tubs seemed to be in deadly earnest.
They watched each other jealously. If one seemed to be getting a
little advantage the other three turned upon him as the common enemy.
When half way over one fellow made a misplay with his paddle. Losing
his balance he lurched out of his novel craft with a tremendous splash,
at which the shouts of the spectators swelled into even greater volume.
This left just three in the race. The fellow in the river was trying
hard to climb into his tub again, but the task was too much for him,
and he found himself being quickly distanced in the race.
The antics of the competing tubs were astonishing. There were times
when one of them would get to spinning around, and it took all the
muscular efforts of the navigator to bring order of chaos.
Meanwhile the other two would have gained something of a lead, so that
the fellow left behind must needs paddle with tremendous zeal to catch
up.
Near the other shore a stake showed where the return journey must be
begun; and heading toward this the three tub champions kept up their
energetic work.
Buster rounded the stake first. There was a grin on his face as if he
anticipated an easy victory now. He immediately increased his lead
until he had placed considerable distance between himself and his
rivals.
Then he unfortunately turned his head to look back. Buster should
have known better. It is always a dangerous thing to do, whether when
fleeing from a burning city or trying to win a boat race.
Lot's wife was turned into a pillar of salt from looking back; but
Buster simply rolled gracefully out of his tub into the Harrapin river.
"It's all over with Buster!" shouted some of those who had been
enthusiastically applauding his fine work; while the adherents of the
other two started in once more to shout their hopes.
"Wait and see what he does," suggested another, who had been watching
the practice work of the fat boy recently.
Buster pulled himself together. He seemed to gauge the capacity of his
tub for bearing up his weight, for he slid himself over the edge with a
precision gained from long practice.
"He's in!" whooped a delighted fan.
"No, he's out!" echoed another, as Buster, having acquired too much
momentum took a header over the further side of his round and awkward
craft, once more bringing up with a splash in the water.
Meanwhile his competitors were striving madly to cover up the space
separating them from the one in advance. They were coming on with
considerable confidence and speed, trying to avoid the calamity that
had apparently overtaken Buster.
"There he goes at it again. Mount him, Buster; hold his mane and climb
on! Don't let a bucking broncho do you, old fellow! Now you've got him!
Whoa! don't slide off the other side of the saddle, boy! Whoop! he's
done it, fellows."
Once more Buster was securely settled in his tub, having accomplished a
feat seldom successfully engineered by contestants in a tub race. Again
he set a pace for the goal, and this time he absolutely refused to look
back, no matter how the crowd shouted to him to take just one peep.
Consequently Buster came in an easy winner, for the other two, finding
themselves hopelessly beaten, started to striving with each other as if
to see which could upset the other out of his wabbly craft.
Frank gave a sigh of relief. His sense of satisfaction had nothing to
do with the victory of Buster Billings, however. It was occasioned by
seeing Lanky come up the bank, and noting the look of triumph on his
lean face.
"What have you been doing, Lanky?" he managed to ask, as the other
passed by.
Lanky shut one eye and looked very knowing as he bent forward to
whisper the suggestive words:
"Green paint!" and nod his head violently several times.