AT THE MILE
_Splash! Swish! Rattle!_
The oars dug into the water venomously, swirled through, emerged
dripping and flashing, disappeared again. Brown, sinewy arms shot
forward and back, bodies bent and unbent like powerful springs, the
water was thrown in little cascades of glistening pearls, and the
coxswains, open-mouthed, intense, cried unintelligible things in the
uproar, and looked like vindictive little demons crouching for a
spring. There was no long, rhythmic swing of the oars now; there was
nothing inspiring to the spectators in the quick, dashing movements of
the sweeps; all seemed without system, incoherent.
Ten--eleven--twelve--thirteen--fourteen strokes! Then the savage
struggle was past, and out from the momentary chaos of uproar and
turmoil and seething water the Hillton shell shot into the lead, its
bobbing cox even with Number Four of the St. Eustace boat.
“Steady all! Lengthen out! Lengthen out!”
The plunging dips of the eight crimson-bladed oars ceased. Stroke, with
a quick glance at the other boat, moved back to the full limit of the
slide, his sweep swirled steadily, almost slowly, through the quieter
water, came out square, turned, feathered over yards of racing ripples,
and again lost itself under the gleaming surface.
“_Time! Time!_” yelled cox.
And now backs were bending in perfect unison, oarlocks rattled as one,
and rowing superbly at thirty-two strokes to the minute, the crimson
eight forced the shining cedar craft away until clear water showed
between its rudder and the knifelike bow of its rival. Hillton had
gained the first trick, and, although the game was by no means yet won,
Dick’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, Keene allowed a smile to cross
his face, and on the Terrible, racing along in the wake of the speeding
shells, Professor Beck and Coach Kirk glanced at each other and nodded.
Across the intervening tide came, shrilly, insistent, the cry of the
St. Eustace coxswain:
“_Hit her up! Hit her up! Hit her up!_”
In response eight blue-clad bodies bent and strained in an endeavor to
place their shell beside Hillton’s, and eight blue-tipped oars flashed
swiftly back and forth. St. Eustace was rowing thirty-seven. Dick
shot a glance of inquiry at Keene. The latter glanced over his right
shoulder.
“Can’t keep it up,” he answered to Stroke’s unspoken question. “_Four,
you’re late!_”
Slowly the bow of the St. Eustace boat crept up on them; now it was
abreast of their rudder; a dozen strokes more and it was even with cox;
a minute later St. Eustace’s bow oar was cutting the water opposite
to Dick. But there was no alteration of the latter’s stroke. For a
minute or two the Blue’s boat hung tenaciously to the place it had won;
then, inch by inch, it dropped astern again, yet so slowly that it
was long before Dick was certain that it was so. The Blue was rowing
at thirty-three now, and very wisely husbanding her strength. The
half-mile was past, and the race was a quarter over.
Down at the finish crowds lined the shores and stood packed into a
restless mass on the great iron bridge that spans the river a few rods
below the imaginary line. The scene was a bright one. Overhead the
summer sky arched warmly blue, a vast expanse of color unbroken save
in the west, where a soft bank of cumulate clouds lay one upon the
other like giant pillows. The river reflected the intense azure of the
heavens and caught the sunlight on every ripple and wave until from
long gazing upon it the eyes were dazzled into temporary blindness.
On each side the banks were thickly wooded save that here and there a
square or quadrangle of radiant turf stretched from the margin of the
stream upward and away to some quiet mansion leaf-embowered in the
distance. The western side of the river was deep-toned with shadows for
a little space, and there upon the bank the trees held a promise of the
twilight in their dark foliage. Up the stream, to the right, Marshall
dozed in the afternoon, a picturesque group of white buildings, studded
here and there with clumps of green; a long, low factory building
stood by the water and glowed warmly red in the sunlight. Across the
river and almost opposite to the village St. Eustace Academy sprawled
its half-dozen edifices down the southern slope of a gentle hill, but
only the higher towers and gables showed above the big elms that stood
sentinel about it.
Along the bridge and up and down both shores by the finish crimson
flags and streamers shone side by side with the deep blue banners
of the rival school. Gay hats and bright-hued dresses pricked out
the throngs. Field-glasses now and then gave aid to eager eyes, and
everywhere was an atmosphere of impatience and excitement. Many nerves
were a-tingle there that sunny afternoon, while far up the river, like
thin bright streaks upon the water, the two boats, to all appearances
side by side, sped onward toward victory or defeat. It was anybody’s
race as yet, said the watchers on the bridge; and indeed it looked so,
not alone to them, but to the spectators in the launches and tugs that
followed the shells, to the officials in their speeding craft, to the
occupants of the slender cedar racing-ships themselves--to all save one.
Trevor Nesbitt, toiling over his oar with white, set face, was alone
certain that defeat was to be the harvest of the eight heroes in
crimson. But although he alone was sure, it is possible that Keene
was already scenting disaster, for the coxswain was staring ahead at
Trevor with frowning brow and anxious eyes.
“_Brace up, Four! You’re late!_”
Trevor heard the cry as one half asleep hears the summons to awake;
he wondered why cox didn’t speak louder; but he brought his wandering
thoughts back the next instant and bore doggedly at his oar. Yes, he
could still row; one more stroke; now, yet one more; and still another.
It seemed as though each must be his last, and yet, when it was done,
strength still remained for another, weaker, slower, but still another.
Ever since the half-mile had been passed he had been on the verge of
collapse. He was faint and weak and dizzy; the blue sky and glistening
water were merged in his failing sight into one strange expanse of
awful, monotonous blue that revolved behind him in mighty sweeps like
a monster cyclorama. Often it was dotted with craft that trailed soft,
gray vapor behind them; often the lights were suddenly turned quite
out, and the world was left in impenetrable blackness, and he closed
his eyes and was glad.
“_Four! Four! What’s the matter? Brace up, man!_”
And then he opened his aching eyes again, slowly, unwillingly, to find
the world for the moment normal; to see the muscles of Waters’s neck
straining like cords; to see a line of crimson bodies working back
and forth; to wonder with alarm why he was sitting there motionless
when every one else was at work, and then to suddenly discover that
he, too, was going forward and back on the slide, and in time with
the other toilers. In one such moment he looked aside and saw a
line of blue figures moving like automatons almost even with them.
He wondered if they knew--those automatons--that they were going to
win. He could tell them, but he wouldn’t; not a word. A funny little
figure apparently sliding up and down at the stern reminded him of a
ridiculous image of a heathen god he had once seen in a museum. It was
very funny. He tried to grin----
“_Eyes in the boat, Four!_” shrieked the coxswain shrilly, angrily.
Trevor wondered who he was talking to. Strange that he should talk when
they were losing the race; silence--silence like his own--would have
been more fitting. There was a sudden jerk at his arms that for the
instant brought him back to reality. He didn’t know what had happened;
possibly he had struck a snag; but he found the time again after a
fashion and worked on doggedly, as a machine might work, with neither
sensation nor spirit. He had caught a crab, but he didn’t know it
then. Suddenly an almost overmastering hatred of the tossing blue line
across the little breadth of water surged over him. They would win, the
beasts, the monsters! And the little heathen image that slid up and
down at the end would be happy! And Dick and Keene and all the others
would be miserable and heartbroken! Heaven, how he hated those
monsters in blue and the little red-haired heathen image!
The cox was talking again now; what was it he said? Water? Cox wanted
water; surely some one could get him water? But he had said Five,
hadn’t he? Well, he wasn’t Five, and so---- What was this? He was wet!
Oh, yes, Five was splashing him desperately with water. He wondered why
and wished he’d stop; it got into his eyes and mouth and bothered him.
“Four, brace up, can’t you? It’s almost over!” pleaded cox from a great
distance.
What was almost over? Trevor opened his eyes and drew his white,
dripping forehead into a puzzled frown. Oh, yes, the race! His mind
and vision cleared, and he saw things as they were; saw Keene’s eyes
looking at him despairingly, saw the cox of the St. Eustace boat slide
by him and disappear; saw the one mile buoy rush astern; saw himself,
huddled over his motionless oar that dragged, splashing, on the
surface. His brain was once more clear. He seized the oar handle, and
tried to draw it to him. It was no use. He tried to explain it all to
Keene in one long, agonized look. Then he saw the only way by which he
could aid, and summoning a semblance of strength, with a deep breath,
he reached out, and with trembling, nerveless fingers unlocked his oar
and dropped it aside. It was lost to sight on the instant.
[Illustration: The only way by which he could aid.]
“_Careful, Four!_” warned the cox.
Trevor steadied himself with a hand on the gunwale, brought his
reluctant body half erect, and then flung himself over the side. He
heard the coxswain’s voice for an instant:
“_Mind oars, Five and Seven!_”
Then the waters closed over his head.