“ARE YOU READY? GO!”
HILLTON
NAME. Position. Age. Weight.
R. F. Hope Stroke 17 134
R. M. Taylor 7 18 150
R. Crocker 6 17 165
C. H. Waters 5 16 142
T. Nesbitt 4 16 149
W. H. Cheever 3 17 148
J. Whitman 2 17 147
R. L. Shield Bow 17 126
S. M. Keene Coxswain 17 110
---- ----
Average for eight 16⅞ 145⅛
ST. EUSTACE
B. Downs Stroke 18 147
H. L. Price 7 17 142
A. J. Richardson 6 17 145
T. Wells 5 16 162
P. H. Garrity 4 17 161
A. R. Noland 3 16 143
R. F. Gerstner 2 18 139
W. A. Overton Bow 17 133
D. E. Perine Coxswain 18 98
---- ----
Average for eight 17 146½
Trevor read the tables and laid down the copy of the Marshall Morning
Reporter with a sigh and stared across the little lawn at the village
street. Muggins worried the newspaper for a moment, and then,
observing Trevor’s attitude, cuddled up to him in sympathy, and thumped
the porch floor with what, had it been in his power, he would have
called his tail. The paper fluttered off across the gravel driveway,
and he cocked his ears, meditating pursuit; but Trevor’s hand had now
found his head; the sun was warm; it was comforting to be rubbed; and
so he only blinked sleepily and sat quiet.
Saturday, the 15th of June, had dawned warm and clear. Over the river a
little blue mist hung until a strong breeze swept across the water from
the west, kicking up quite a rumpus along the eastern shore. The town
was already well filled with visitors, among them not a few graduates
of Hillton and St. Eustace, who had arrived the preceding evening.
The quiet old village was decked in holiday attire, and its shrewd
innkeepers and merchants were rubbing their hands in anticipation of
the yearly harvest.
Three of the Hillton crew had complained at the breakfast table that
morning of having lame backs, while Talbot, a substitute, was clearly
out of the question, having no appetite and not a little fever.
“I always said there was malaria in this place,” complained Kirk, “it’s
so low. We had some trouble last year, do you remember, Hope? Benson
was attacked with fever, although it left him at noon and he was all
right again. That’s where St. Eustace has the better of us; she’s used
to this place, and we’re not. I believe it wouldn’t be a half bad plan
next year to leave coming here until the morning of the race.”
And Trevor, sitting on the edge of the porch, engaged with Muggins’s
ears, heard and was comforted. He had awoke that morning after an
unrefreshing sleep with a most uncomfortable sensation of goneness and
a bewildering heaviness in his head. His eyes seemed tired, as though
he had been reading long and hard, his lips were parched, and as the
morning went on a feeling of feverishness alarmed him. At breakfast he
had forced himself to eat, much against the inclination of his stomach,
for fear that Kirk would perceive his condition and keep him out of the
boat. He was not used to illness, and was inclined to attribute his
unpleasant condition to nervousness. And now Kirk’s words encouraged
him; it was quite likely that he had got into a similar condition to
that of the unknown Benson; if so it would be all right when noon came;
all he had to do was to look cheerful so that Kirk wouldn’t discover
his state. So he grinned as broadly as possible, and whistled one of
his tuneless tunes. And for a time his indisposition really left him,
or very nearly did so, and during the hour of easy work on the river
and the subsequent fifteen minutes of starting practice he was able to
work well and even brilliantly, and was certain that his illness was
past.
The race was down for half-past three. After work in the shell was
over and the craft was safe in the little boat-house some half mile
from the hotel, the crew and substitutes, with the exception of the
unfortunate Talbot, were taken on a long, unhurried walk along the
river under the guidance of Kirk, who tried to keep their thoughts as
much as possible off of the coming contest. The nervousness that had
begun to make its appearance gradually subsided under the soothing
influence of quiet country lanes and wood paths, and at twelve the
fellows returned to the hotel looking fresh and untroubled.
The hostelry meanwhile had filled with a merry and excited throng
of Hillton boys and graduates, and had become a veritable blaze of
crimson. Muggins was beside himself with delight; never before had he
received so much attention; he welcomed each new arrival with frantic
barks of joy, and scampered about from one group to another, his
brilliant blanket flashing restlessly hither and thither. Carl and
Stewart and Todd and Williams and everybody else, apparently, had come
down for the race, and all was tumult and laughter and handshaking. Old
Hillton fellows who had not met for a year or more shouted greetings to
each other across the corridor or struggled madly through the throngs
to clap each other on the back. Into this scene pushed the returning
crew, and as their presence was discovered the crowd broke into ringing
cheers, and pressed about them, eager for a word with or a look at the
youngsters upon whose broad shoulders rested their hopes.
At last, however, they managed to reach the parlor on the second
floor, into whose sacred precincts admission was denied to all
else. Trevor sank into a chair with a smothered groan. The former
indisposition had returned with all its former force, and for a moment
he sat dazed and faint. When he looked up he found Dick’s eyes upon him
anxiously.
“What’s the matter, chum?”
Trevor smiled with an effort.
“Nothing, I fancy; just a bit--a bit tired.”
“Well, sneak off upstairs and lie down a while, like a good chap. We
can’t have you going off, old fellow. Talbot’s the only chap that would
be fit for your place, and he’s as limp as a rag. Take a rest before
dinner.”
Trevor obeyed, and spent the next quarter of an hour at full length on
his bed in the room which he shared with Dick and two others. He shut
his eyes resolutely, telling himself that he would be all right after a
nap. But sleep refused to come, and he lay and wondered over and over
whether he would be able to take his place in the boat. If he wasn’t
poor old Dick would be in a hard way, he thought. There were three
substitutes there besides Talbot, but not one of them was accustomed to
rowing at Number 4, and, for that matter, not one was fitted for the
position. All he could do, he resolved, was to fight down the beastly
sickness; once in the boat, he felt certain he would be able to do his
work. Besides, there was the case of Benson; to be sure, it was already
noon, and his fever, instead of taking itself off, seemed rather to
be increasing; but perhaps he had it a little worse than Benson, and
it would take longer to disappear. He pressed his hands hard over his
forehead in a vain endeavor to ease his headache, and tried his best
to go to sleep. And then the dinner gong sounded, and he made a hasty
toilet and joined the rest in the parlor, where a private table was
spread. The meal was a sorry affair. Even the fellows who had rowed
against St. Eustace the year before showed signs of nervousness,
while some of the less experienced were in a blue funk. Kirk worked
heroically to keep their spirits up, but it was of no avail in most
cases, and there was a palpable air of relief when the meal was over
and they were free to hide their feelings by moving about and talking
to their heart’s content. A half-hour later the march to the boat-house
was begun, and a crowd of admirers followed in their wake. Once in
their places much of the nervousness wore off, and, cheered by the
throng on shore, Hillton’s crew paddled out into the stream and set
leisurely off for the start.
In the open air Trevor’s headache lessened, and he felt much better.
Dick, who had been plainly anxious about him, found encouragement from
his fresher looks and heaved a sigh of relief. As they paddled slowly
up the river a sound of distant cheering reached them, and at a command
from Keene they rested upon their oars and glanced up-stream and across
to the St. Eustace boat-house. The rival eight were stepping into their
shell. One after another the blue-clad youths took their places. Then
they put out into the stream and dropped down the river toward the
Hillton boat.
“There’s a good deal of splashing there,” said Dick.
“Yes.” Keene watched the oncoming crew attentively. “Yes, port side’s
terribly ragged. But they look a powerful lot. Touch her easy, Seven.
That’ll do.”
At a little distance up-stream the St. Eustace shell made a wide turn,
the eight rowers for a moment resting upon their oars and sending a
hearty cheer across the blue water. Hillton returned the compliment and
her rival moved away again.
“They look a bit heavier than us,” said Shield from the bow of the boat.
“Only about a pound,” answered Dick, watching the shell creep
up-stream; “that is, according to their weights, you know. But I’ll
wager that Richardson weighs more than a hundred and forty-five.”
“Yes, and Wells is more than seventeen years old,” said Taylor.
“I dare say. What time is it, Keene?”
“Five after.”
“Well, let’s go up. By Jove, fellows, what a day for it!” Dick took a
deep breath of the brisk, invigorating air, sweet with the fragrance of
lush meadows and moist woods, and turned smilingly to Taylor. “How do
you feel?”
“Too good to describe,” answered Number 7 heartily. “I could row ten
miles instead of two.”
“Good boy,” said Dick. He gazed up the length of the shell. Answering
smiles met him from bright eyes and glowing faces, save in one case.
Trevor grinned broadly; he even essayed a wink; but the grin was
somewhat awry and the wink was a poor thing. Dick frowned, and,
turning, gripped his oar with his exuberance lessened.
“Ready all! Forward! Paddle!”
The shell crept up-stream between banks sprinkled with spectators,
hurrying, in most cases, toward the finish line or some midway point
of vantage. At the start quite a throng had assembled to see the boats
get away. The Terrible, bearing a number of Hillton representatives,
chugged alongside, and from her deck Kirk gave his last commands in
low tones to Dick and Keene. Then he spoke briefly to the crew, and a
moment later both shells backed to the starting-line.
Trevor saw the throng through a light mist. With his hands gripping the
oar he stared in growing misery at the neck of Number 5 and waited,
wondering for the tenth time how much longer the suspense would last.
To the left of him was the St. Eustace boat. The fellows were peeling
off their sweaters and some were whispering. Then Trevor was removing
his own sweater, and the referee was talking to them about something;
what it was he didn’t know nor care. If only they would start! He
heard Keene’s voice: “Get ready!” He went forward on his slide, turned
his blade square in the water, and felt it snug against the thole-pin.
“I shall say ‘Are you ready?’ once; if I receive no reply I shall say
‘Go!’”
The referee’s voice came through the megaphone with sudden warning.
“Touch her easy, Two,” said the cox in quiet unconcerned tones.
“That’ll do; steady, Two!”
Trevor’s gaze, suddenly roaming to the other boat, saw the rival cox, a
red-haired, spidery-looking youth, bending forward, his eyes alert but
steady, his hands gripped tight about the lines. The little throng near
at hand had grown quiet, almost silent. His head ached a bit, and his
eyes----
“_Are you ready?_”
His heart gave a leap that threatened to choke him; then sank quickly,
suddenly; he waited--waited. Would the word never come? The breeze was
ruffling the back of Waters’s shirt. The sun was very bright, and the
small waves reflected its rays in the manner of a thousand mirrors.
Surely the referee had----
“GO!”
There was a rush of blades through the water, a sudden leap, a confused
rattling of many oars, a seething on every side, a shouting from bank
and boats. The race was on!