CAPTAIN OF THE CREW
BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.
Each Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth, $1.50.
For Yardley.
Finkler’s Field. ($1.25.)
Winning His “Y.”
The New Boy at Hilltop.
Double Play.
Forward Pass!
The Spirit of the School.
Four in Camp.
Four Afoot.
Four Afloat.
The Arrival of Jimpson.
Behind the Line.
Captain of the Crew.
For the Honor of the School.
The Half-Back.
On Your Mark.
Weatherby’s Inning.
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, NEW YORK.
[Illustration: “Your promise!” he cried. “Quick!”]
CAPTAIN OF THE CREW
By
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
Author of For the Honor of the School
and The Half-Back
_Illustrated by C. M. Relyea_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1912
Copyright, 1901,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
INTRODUCTION
In this, as in the two preceding volumes of the series--The Half-Back
and For the Honor of the School--an attempt is made to show that
athletics rightly indulged in is beneficial to the average boy and is
an aid rather than a detriment to study. In it, too, as in the previous
books, a plea is made for honesty and simplicity in sports. There is
a tendency in this country to-day to give too great an importance to
athletics--to take it much too seriously--and it is this tendency that
should be guarded against, especially among school and college youths.
When athletics ceases to be a pleasure and becomes a pursuit it should
no longer have a place in school or college life.
Many inquiries have been received as to whether Hillton Academy really
exists. It doesn’t. It is, instead, a composite of several schools
that the author knows of, and is not unlike any one of a half dozen
institutions which are yearly turning out hundreds of honest, manly
American boys, stronger, sturdier, and more self-reliant for just such
trials and struggles as in the present volume fall to the lot of Dick
Hope.
To those readers who have followed the varying fortunes of Joel March,
Outfield West, Wayne Gordon, and their companions, this book is
gratefully dedicated by
THE AUTHOR.
PHILADELPHIA, _June 19, 1901_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE BOY ON THE BOX 1
II.--INTRODUCING DICK HOPE 11
III.--’IS ’IGHNESS 20
IV.--IN THE GYM 31
V.--THE INDOOR MEETING 42
VI.--THE RELAY RACE 53
VII.--TREVOR’S VICTORY 62
VIII.--CANDIDATES FOR THE CREW 70
IX.--THE HOCKEY MATCH 77
X.--BUYING AN ICE-YACHT 92
XI.--ADVENTURES OF A BULL PUP 106
XII.--MUGGINS IS EXPELLED 115
XIII.--THE VOYAGE OF THE SLEET 124
XIV.--DICK TELLS HIS STORY 133
XV.--IN THE ROWING-ROOM 142
XVI.--A DECLARATION OF WAR 155
XVII.--IN THE BOAT 166
XVIII.--DICK SURRENDERS 179
XIX.--DEFIES THE LAW 191
XX.--AND EXTORTS A PROMISE 204
XXI.--A DISAPPOINTING HERO 214
XXII.--TAYLOR ACCEPTS DEFEAT 224
XXIII.--PROSPECTS OF VICTORY 231
XXIV.--STEWART’S REVENGE 238
XXV.--“ARE YOU READY? GO!” 248
XXVI.--AT THE MILE 257
XXVII.--AT THE FINISH 265
XXVIII.--TREVOR IS COMFORTED 273
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
“Your promise!” he cried. “Quick!” _Frontispiece_
Plan of Hillton, N. Y. 24
On the last lap. 50
A winner by ten yards. 90
“Stand by the ship!” he muttered. 132
A declaration of war. 156
The only way by which he could aid. 262
CAPTAIN OF THE CREW
CHAPTER I
THE BOY ON THE BOX
“Hillton! Hillton!”
The brakeman winked solemnly at the group of boys in the end seats,
withdrew his head, slammed the door and crossed the swaying platforms
to make a similar announcement to the occupants of the car ahead. From
the left side of the train passengers caught a glimpse of a broad
expanse of meadow upon which tiny flecks of red flared dully in the
winter sunshine; of a distant grand stand, bleak and desolate, against
whose northern shoulder a drift of snow snuggled as though seeking
protection from its enemy the sun; of two pairs of goal-posts gravely
watching each other from opposite ends of a long field; of a bit of
country road, a slowly rising hill, a little army of leafless elms,
and, last of all, crowning a promontory below which the frozen Hudson
sparkled, a group of old red brick buildings, elbowing each other
with friendly rivalry in an endeavor to gain the post of honor and to
be first seen of the outside world that traveled by train. That was
Hillton Academy.
There was a long warning shriek from the engine, echoed back by the
wooded slope of Mount Adam; a momentary reverberating roar as the train
crossed the little viaduct; the whistle of air brakes; and then, as the
train came to a stop, a babel of boys’ voices. Some twenty youths of
assorted ages and sizes, laden with every description of luggage, from
golf bags and valises down to boxes of figs and caramels purchased from
the train-boy and still uneaten, pushed and scrambled their way to the
station platform. The last trunk was slid from the baggage car, and the
conductor, portly and jovial, sang “All aboard!” and waved a smiling
good-by to the boys.
“Good-by, Pop! See you later!” “Don’t forget that anti-fat, Pop!” And
then, when the train had gained speed, a slim junior danced along the
platform waving a bit of pasteboard exultingly under the conductor’s
nose and just out of his reach: “Hey, Pop! You didn’t get my ticket!
Stop the train! Stop the train!” An old joke this, that never failed of
applause. The conductor shook his fist in simulated wrath, and the next
instant, with a farewell shriek of the whistle, the train was lost to
sight.
Beside the platform waited the coach, from the box of which “Old Joe,”
the driver, smiled a toothless welcome. Each year held three red-letter
days for “Old Joe,” namely, the days preceding the commencement of the
three school terms, when the students, refreshed by recess or vacation,
returned in merry troops to Hillton--noisy, mischievous, vexing, but
ever admirable to the old stage-driver--and taxed the capacity of the
coach to the utmost, and “Old Joe’s” patience to the limit. This was
the first of the red-letter days of the present year, which was as yet
but forty-eight hours old, and all day long the boys who had been so
fortunate as to return to their homes for the Christmas recess had been
piling from the trains to the stage and from the stage to the steps
of Academy Building. And “Old Joe,” who loved the excitement of it
all, and worshiped everything, animate or inanimate, that belonged to
Hillton, was in his glory.
“Now, then, you young terrors, get aboard here. Can’t wait all
afternoon for you. This ain’t no ’commodating train, and----”
“Hello, Joe, old chap; how’s your appetite?” “Still able to sit up and
take your meals, Joe?” “Say, fellows, Old Joe’s looking younger every
day.” “Give me a hand up, Joe, and I’ll show you how to drive those old
plugs of yours.” “Please, Joe, you said I could sit on the box with you
this trip, don’t you remember?”
“Have to be next time, youngster; seat’s full a’ready. How do, Mister
Hope? Scramble out o’ here, sir, an’ give Mister Hope your seat. Oh, is
that you, Mister Nesbitt? Well----”
“No, I’ll sit back here,” answered the boy addressed as Hope. “I can
jump off quicker when we upset.”
“Hark to that,” growled the driver in pretended anger; “an’ me
forty-two years on this road an’ never no accident yet. All aboard
there! No, ye don’t, sir; no more room atop. Trunks’ll go up next trip,
sir. All right now. _Tlk! Get ap!_”
The two stout grays, known popularly as “Spring Halt” and “Spavin,”
settled into their collars, and the big stage, swaying comfortably on
its leather springs, lumbered around the corner into Station Road.
From the interior of the coach, where twelve youths had managed to
pack themselves into a space designed to hold but nine, floated out a
wild medley of shouts and laughter. On top, two boys had secured the
much-coveted places beside the driver, while on the seat behind three
others were perched. When the little stone station had been left the
boy who occupied the other end of the driver’s seat, and whom “Old Joe”
had called “Mister Nesbitt,” leaned across the intervening youth and
addressed the driver:
“Now, Joe, let’s have the lines, old chap, and I’ll show you a bit of
fancy driving that’ll open your eyes. Come now, like a nice old Joe.”
“Now, don’t be askin’ for the reins, Mister Nesbitt, sir. You know it’s
agin the rules for the boys to drive.”
“What! Oh, rot, Joe! I never heard of such a rule. Did you, Williams?”
“Never,” replied the third occupant of the box. “Joe dreamed it.”
“Of course you did, Joe. Come on, now; just let me have them to the
corner there. Don’t be a duffer, man. Why, I can drive a pair bang up.”
“Old Joe” cast a deeply suspicious glance at the youth--and was lost.
Trevor Nesbitt assumed a look of angelic innocence and sweetness and
pleaded so eloquently with his blue eyes that the driver grudgingly
relinquished the lines.
“Mind ye now, Mister Nesbitt, just to the corner you said.”
“Meaning around it, Joe, of course,” replied Nesbitt as he adjusted
the lines knowingly between his gloved fingers. “Come, Spavin, cheer
up, old laddie!” Williams, who had been holding the long-lashed whip,
now handed it to Nesbitt, who sent the lash swirling over his head,
and with a quick movement snapped it loudly a few inches from Spavin’s
head. The result was instantaneous. The off horse snorted loudly and
leaped forward, and the other followed suit. “Old Joe” snatched at the
reins, but Nesbitt held them out of reach.
“Don’t whip ’em, sir,” cried the old man, “please don’t whip ’em; they
ain’t used to it, sir.” Nesbitt laughed gaily.
“Don’t you worry, Joe, I’ll not hurt them. But we can’t put on side,
old chap, unless we just touch them up a bit.”
_Crack_ went the long lash again.
For several years the grays had traveled the road from station to
school and thence to the Eagle Tavern without other persuasion than
a cheery chirp or a sharp whistle from “Old Joe,” or, upon rare
occasions, a half-hearted snap of the whip in no startling proximity
to their ears. To-day there was plainly something wrong, and so, after
a moment of bewildered consideration, they broke into a long ungainly
gallop, to the joy of the boy with the reins and to the terror of “Old
Joe.”
“By Jove, Williams, this is something like, eh?” Nesbitt sat up
straight on the seat, tightened the lines and grinned delightedly at
his companion. “Old Joe” was pleading excitedly for the whip.
“Please, sir, give me the whip now. I’m afeared for you to have it. You
might hit ’em, sir, accidental, an’ there’s no telling what they’d do.
Mister Williams, sir, just you hand it to me. _Stop him!_” But he had
spoken too late. Nesbitt brought the lash down smartly on the broad
back of the off horse, and the gallop changed to a plunging run, the
coach swaying awkwardly from side to side. “Old Joe” reached forward
desperately to wrest the lines from the boy, but Williams interfered.
“Hands off, Joe,” cried Nesbitt, “or you’ll have us over. Keep him
quiet, Williams.”
From inside the stage came a babel of shouts, the exclamations of alarm
half drowned by the noise of the beating hoofs and the protesting
creaks of the leather springs. The horses with heads down, frightened
at length by the unwonted use of the whip, galloped madly. Nesbitt,
smiling and cool, sat straight and handled the lines with skill, which
at any other time would have won loud commendation from “Old Joe.” But
just at present that worthy was too terrorized to appreciate aught
but the fact that the grays were apparently running away. He had a
frightful vision of an overturned coach, of mangled bodies, and of
everlasting disgrace. Yet he recognized the fact that to take the lines
away from Nesbitt by force, even had such a thing been possible, would
be the surest way to bring about the very catastrophe he dreaded. And
then he glanced ahead down the frozen road and saw the sharp turn but a
short distance away.
The three youths on the seat behind had been watching affairs at first
with amusement and now with apprehension. The boy in the center frowned
and turned to one of his companions.
“Who is that chap?” he asked in a low voice.
“What! don’t you know ‘’Is ’Ighness’?”
“‘His Highness’? No, I don’t. Who is he; one of our class?”
“No; he’s an upper middle chap; Trevor Nesbitt’s his real name. The
fellows call him ‘’Is ’Ighness’ because he’s English. He’s a good sort,
all right, but I wish he’d let driving alone.”
“So do I,” responded the boy at the other end of the seat, “but”--a
note of admiration creeping into his dubious tones--“he knows how, all
right!”
“But, I say, Hope,” cried the previous speaker, “look there; we’ve
got to go around that corner! Let’s say our prayers.” Hope’s brows
contracted as he glanced ahead; then he slid from the seat, rested
himself on his knee, clinging tightly the while, and leaned over the
back of the seat ahead.
“Look here, can you get them around that turn?”
“Who’s that, Williams?” asked Nesbitt without looking around.
“Dick Hope; he wants to know----”
“Tell him to shut up and sit down, Williams,” interrupted Nesbitt
calmly. Hope flushed angrily, but said no more, crouching in his place
between the seats with an idea of lending a hand in case of disaster,
although in just what way he could be of use was far from clear.
Nesbitt raised to his feet, propping himself firmly, the reins tight
wrapped about his hands.
“Hold tight all,” he warned, “and bear to the right!”
With the turn but a few yards away he brought his weight to bear on
the lines, swaying from side to side with the lurching coach, settling
farther and farther back as the horses lowered their heads to the
command of the tugging bits. Hope thought of “Old Joe” at that moment,
and glanced across at him. The stage-driver was silent now, his cheeks
white, his face drawn. Williams, too, was pale, and his rigid attitude
told more plainly than words that the fun had ceased for him. Nesbitt
alone of the three occupants of the box appeared at ease. Hope could
see the warm color playing on his cheek, and----
“Easy, boys, easy!” Nesbitt called slowly, soothingly to the horses,
and then-- Well, Hope was clutching desperately at the boards in the
grating; he saw the backs of the straining animals turn at an angle to
the stage, heard the great wheels _slur-r-r_ across the frozen ground,
felt the body of the coach sway far to the left, as though it were on
its way across the fence at that side, and opened his eyes again to
find a straight road ahead of them, and to see Nesbitt settle himself
into his seat once more. “Old Joe” muttered an exclamation of relief.
Hope again leaned across Nesbitt’s shoulder.
“I think you’ve shown off enough for to-day,” he said. “Now pull those
horses down--if you can.”
Nesbitt glanced back into the other’s face, an angry light in his blue
eyes.
“Will you kindly attend to your own affairs?” he asked with suspicious
sweetness. Hope smiled in spite of his anger.
“If you don’t think it’s my affair,” he replied, “maybe you’ll
acknowledge that the gentlemen ahead have something to say about it.”
Nesbitt looked up the road and whistled.
“Just my bally luck!” he murmured. “Professors!” With straining arms he
bore back on the lines. Little by little the horses slackened speed,
and at last dropped into a trot, but not before the coach had swept by
two very serious-faced Hillton professors out for a walk, whose sharp
glances presaged trouble. Nesbitt handed over the lines and whip to
“Old Joe.”
“My luck again,” he sighed.
“An’ serves you right,” grunted the driver.
Hope crawled into his seat again. His companions were busy explaining
the course of events to the inhabitants of the interior of the coach,
or as many of them as could get their heads out the doors, and ere
the latter had run out of questions the stage turned into the academy
grounds and crawled sedately up to the steps of Academy Building.
Hope leaped from the coach and hurried off to his room, while the other
boys, laughing and joking, clustered about Nesbitt. “Wheels won’t do a
thing to you,” one lad assured him with a grin.
“Well, don’t let it trouble you, Tommy,” he answered gaily. “But, I
say, Williams, who was that meddlesome chap on the back seat?”
It was Williams’s turn to grin.
“The fellow you told to shut up, you mean?” Nesbitt nodded.
“Oh, no one much; just Dick Hope, captain of the crew.”