THE BATTLING FLIVVER
Tom roomed with Billy Desmond, a second class fellow. Billy was both a
football and crew man, this spring rowing at four on the School eight.
The baseball team played away from home on Saturday, meeting Peebles
School at Clear Lake, and after what had happened last week neither
Tom nor Clif was enthusiastic about going along. Still, they probably
would have gone if the crews hadn’t offered an attraction nearer home.
First and second eights were to do battle over the short course against
similar crews from Highland School, and, since Billy was to row in the
first boat, Tom proposed attending the races rather than the baseball
game. Clif was agreeable, but mentioned the fact dubiously that Double
Lake was nearly four miles away from the entrance of West Hall.
“Heck, I’m not suggesting that we tramp it!” said Tom. “Far, far from
such, old scout. There’s a fellow in the village who’s got a beautiful
flivver, and I’m pretty sure I can get him to take us over and back for
a couple of dollars.”
“You mean that chap who drives the ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’?”
exclaimed Clif, outraged.
“Sure. Why not? The thing goes all right, so what do you care how it
looks?”
“We-ell, but you’re sure we can’t hook a ride with one of the crews.
Those busses hold――”
“I know how many they hold, but there isn’t a chance. I asked Billy if
he couldn’t smuggle us aboard, and he said nothing doing. Say, if it’s
the dollar that’s worrying you, cheer up. I’m flush, boy!”
“No, I’m not worrying about the dollar, I’m worrying about my
self-respect,” answered Clif. “All right, though. I’ll sacrifice even
that for you, Tom. Hold on, though! Say, I wonder if Loring would go.”
“Loring? Gosh, I don’t believe so. Still, he might. That would mean
taking Wattles, too, though.”
“Leave Wattles at home. As long as the car held together Loring would
be all right. Let’s ask him.”
They did, and on Saturday afternoon “The Wreck of the Hesperus” rolled
away from West Hall amidst the loud cheers of a hastily assembled
audience. Wattles watched the departure with very evident disapproval
and anxiety. In his opinion “The Wreck” was not a seemly conveyance for
the son and heir of Mr. Sanford Deane to be observed in. And, besides,
the contraption appeared to be on the verge of dissolution. No anxiety
troubled the occupants of the ancient and dilapidated Ford, however,
as it fled down the driveway and lurched, with a convulsive shudder,
into Oak Street. The driver and owner, one Augustus Meggs, otherwise
Gussie, was employed at a local garage as a mechanic. Gussie was about
twenty, was long and angular, had a freckled face and remarkably
prominent ears and chewed gum as a life work. He was always willing
to tell how he had bought the car for eighty-two dollars three years
before and had “remodeled her, by crickey” with such odds and ends as
were to be found from time to time around the garage. Tom referred to
Gussie as the “Skipper” and conversed in nautical terms with him all
the way to the Lake. Gussie didn’t understand him much of the time,
and was fully aware that his employer was having fun with him, but he
didn’t mind. He had held out for three dollars and got it, and for
three dollars any one could make fun of Gussie as much as he pleased.
Secretly Gussie was of the opinion that the joke, if there was one, was
on the passengers!
They made Double Lake without misadventure, the skipper of “The
Wreck” taking things sort of easy after it had been explained to him
that the boy who had been carried to the car was so brittle that he
would fall to pieces if bounced around too hard. In fact, the skipper
drove so cautiously that by the time the old Ford wheezed down to the
boathouse landing the junior crews were already up at the start. It
was a warm but blowy afternoon, and the blue waters of the lake were
tipped with whitecaps. About fifty Wyndham youths, congregated around
the boathouse, were cheering themselves red in the face, and after
finding Billy Desmond and assuring him of their support, Clif and Tom
returned to “The Wreck of the Hesperus” and bade the skipper warp his
craft closer to the cheering section. Its arrival there met with loud
acclaim, even the crews being for the moment forgotten by the cheerers.
Gussie received the applause modestly, found a fresh piece of gum in a
pocket of his flannel shirt and substituted it for the wad which had
done such good service on the trip out, placed a stone under one of the
back wheels――the brakes didn’t work very well, he explained――and joined
the crowd. And just then the report of a pistol half a mile distant
came faintly, and the cheering section broke into a confused medley of
incoherent entreaties: “Come on, Wyndham!... Row, you dumb-bells!...
Hooray! Hooray!... Hit it up! Hit it up!... Wyndham! Wyndham!... Come
on! Come o-o-o-on!”
Wyndham was not looking for victory to-day. Until last year she had
always put four-oared crews on the water and had won her share of
triumphs. Last year, however, a generous graduate had given the school
two new eight-oared shells, thereby somewhat complicating Wyndham
rowing affairs. Horner Academy, the Dark Blue’s chief rival on the
water, was still sticking to fours, and it was therefore necessary
either to give up Horner that spring or to let the new shells lie on
the racks. Horner practically promised to have at least one eight-oared
crew ready for the following season, and so, partly for that reason
and partly because it would have looked like base ingratitude not to
use the gifts, Wyndham changed from fours to eights, muddled through
the early season without a race and finally entered her first crew in
a three-cornered event on the Housatonic River and finished third only
because there was no fourth entry. One of the Wyndham rooters declared
bitterly that, after the winning crew crossed the line, he ate three
hot dogs before the dark blue oars came into sight! Still later that
spring Highland, which had been boating eights for several years, came
down to Double Lake and inflicted a second defeat. But Wyndham rowed a
better race that day and made the opponent hustle to show a length and
a half of water at the finish. The Dark Blue had learned much since
then, but graduation had taken her best oarsmen, and to-day, in the
first boat, only Captain Badger, at stroke, and Billy Desmond remained
of those who had trailed Highland. As for the second crew, well, it was
hoped that a few of them would still be pulling when the shell reached
the finish――always supposing, that is, it ever did reach it!
But the eight occupants of the second boat――nine if we include young
Carter, the cox――thought better of themselves than that. They seemed
to have an idea that if they kept on digging their blue-tipped sweeps
into the water long enough they could win the race. Of course, since
only half of them had ever rowed in a shell before, this was a most
astounding idea; so astounding that even Mr. McKnight, chemistry
instructor and assistant rowing coach, who had charge of them, stared
unbelievably from the launch when the two slim craft ahead passed the
half-way flag apparently even. “Lovey” passed a hand over his eyes and
looked again. There was no doubt about it, though; the stern of the
Wyndham boat was not a yard behind the stern of the Highland shell. Not
only that, but Wyndham was rowing as steadily as her rival, putting a
lot of power into a twenty-eight stroke! About that time Lovey McKnight
forgot his dignity, both the dignity befitting a faculty member and the
dignity becoming to a coach, and was heard by other occupants of the
Wyndham launch to babble wildly.
Over on the shore, the group by the landing had broken up. Its members
were sprinting along the edge of the lake, waving whatever they could
find to wave, shouting at the top of their lungs. Not all of them,
though, for a handfull elected to see the finish from the landing,
and among these were Tom and Clif and, of necessity, Loring. They had
a clear view, but the angle kept them in uncertainty of the boats’
relative positions. Once it seemed that Wyndham had put a half-length
between her and her rival, but a moment later they concluded that the
boats were still practically side by side. The distance was a mile
and a half, and at the mile flag both crews began to show the strain.
Wyndham was splashing a good deal, and Number 6 in the Highland boat
was rowing late and short. The Dark Blue hit up the stroke to thirty,
to thirty-four, and seemed to gain for a time, but the Blue-and-White
answered the challenge and eventually evened matters again. After that,
to the watchers by the landing, it was anybody’s race right to the
finish. They saw Wyndham pulling fast and hard and raggedly, Highland
desperately rowing a stroke of thirty-six or better. Saw the boats
shoot in front of the farther flag, saw the oars trail and tired forms
in each shell slump in their places, saw the following launches slow
and turn; and still they were in doubt. It was not until the Wyndham
launch had started back that Clif uttered a yell of triumph.
“We won!” he shouted. “We won! Look at those fellows!”
“Those fellows,” by which Clif meant the launch’s occupants, were,
indeed, acting very much as though pleased at the result. One or two,
Mr. McKnight and Weldon, manager and first class member, perhaps, were
behaving decorously enough, but there were at least six others there
and these latter were performing antics that threatened to take them
overboard!
“My Sainted Aunt Jerusha!” howled Tom. “We sure did! We beat ’em,
Loring! What do you know about that? Are we the eel’s whiskers or
aren’t we? I’ll say we are! I’ll tell the world――”
“Shut up!” some one begged. “They’re trying to tell us!”
A blue megaphone was pointing their way from the bow of the approaching
launch. “Wyndham won,” came the hoarse bellow. “By about a third of a
length! A-a-ay!”
“A-a-ay yourself!” yelled Tom. “Wait till you see what happens to ’em
in the next race!”
But something happened before the next race, happened almost while Tom
was still shouting through his funneled hands. He and Clif and the
dozen or so others who had remained about the boathouse had clustered
either on the float or along the edge of the water to get the message
from the launch. Loring, in the back seat of the automobile, had been
left alone in his glory a matter of ten yards up the little grassed
slope. Perhaps in his delight over the victory he stirred himself
enough to jar the car, for there was a _snap_ as the emergency brake
released and a jolt as a rear wheel went over the inadequate stone
placed before it. It was then that Loring’s shout of alarm reached the
others. Perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that it reached
Tom, for many voices were raised and through the babel Loring’s voice
carried no message to most of the group. But Tom heard, looked and
realized. The crazy vehicle was rolling slowly down the slope, heading
for the edge of the lake. With an able-bodied boy in it, Tom would
probably have remained where he was and laughed himself to death, for
the automobile, after pitching a bit over a few loose rocks near the
margin, would doubtless drop comfortably over the two-foot wall and
come to a stop with the water no higher than its floor-boards, and even
if its occupant had elected to stand by the ship no harm could come to
him.
But it was a different story with Loring in the car, and Tom didn’t
stop to laugh. He made a flying leap from the float to the low wall,
hurling an inoffending youth head-over-heels in his flight, and charged
up the slope. “The Wreck of the Hesperus” had started what she may
have intended for her final voyage slowly and demurely, but with every
foot traversed she had gathered speed, and when Tom reached her she
was coming at a determined pace. He went up the slope with a yell
that brought every head around, and on the instant other feet pounded
behind his. But he couldn’t wait for help, and he knew it. Nor did he
dare to try to reach the brakes. All that he could do was charge into
the little car, head down and shoulders hunched, just as he might have
charged into an opposing lineman. There were no falderals on “The
Wreck,” no bumper to keep Tom from coming to close grips. He crouched
and met the radiator with his left shoulder, digging his shoes into the
sod.
But even as light a car as “The Wreck,” when it has an occupant and has
made a fair start downgrade, is not to be stopped in any such manner.
Car and shoulder came together with a force that made every bolt and
rivet rattle and that hurled Tom a foot away and almost lost him his
footing. But he staggered back to the fray, charged again, putting
every ounce of strength and weight into the effort, and won a momentary
victory. The car didn’t stop, but it did pause for an instant before
pushing this strange obstacle before it again, and in that instant it
lost some of its headway. And before it could gather speed again Tom
had plenty of help.
One oversanguine youth seized “The Wreck” by a mudguard and promptly
measured his length, the mudguard clattering about him. But others were
more practical. Several joined Tom at the front while another leaped to
the running board, slid into the car and applied brakes. “The Wreck”
protested, bucked and abandoned her contemplated suicide. Gussie, his
freckled countenance pale with emotion, swallowed his gum and came very
near to strangling during the succeeding confusion. Clif had been too
far distant to reach the car in time to be of use, but it was Clif who
planted the first stone――no mere inconsiderable pebble this time――under
a wheel and then jumped to the running board and anxiously faced a
white but smiling Loring.
“Are you all right?” demanded Clif anxiously.
Loring nodded. He could smile, but he wasn’t ready for conversation
yet. He pulled the discarded rug back over his knees first, and by that
time Gussie had recovered from his choking and the crowd was clustering
thick about the back seat, laughing, though rather nervously, and
plying Loring with questions. Tom was conscious of two things just
then. One was that his shoulder hurt horribly and the other was that
he wanted above all things to beat Gussie to a pulp. He showed a
fine determination to perform this feat, using one arm only, when
peace-makers interfered and the alarmed Gussie was rescued. One of the
fellows who claimed a knowledge of Fords started the car, and, with the
others ready to leap upon it and throttle it if it showed a continued
tendency to go into the lake, maneuvered it up the declivity and onto
level ground. Gussie had forgivingly offered his services, but Tom had
refused to trust him. By this time the launch had joined the waiting
Wyndham first crew and together they were going down to the starting
boats, and the episode of the runaway Ford was forgotten by the throng,
now enlarged by the return of many who had followed the first race
alongshore.
“Guess we’d better go home,” said Tom, scowling blackly at Gussie. “You
must be all in, Loring.”
“I’m not, really, Tom. And I want to see the other race. But perhaps
we’d better go so you can have your arm attended to. It must be awfully
bruised up.”
“Heck, it doesn’t bother me. What do you say, Clif?”
In the end they decided to wait for the final event, but a quarter of
an hour later they regretted not having gone when Tom proposed going,
for the Dark Blue’s first crew, after getting the better of the start,
was headed in the first quarter-mile by a smooth and powerful adversary
and rowed off her feet――if the phrase is allowable here――before the
mile was reached. After that, although Wyndham hung on doggedly,
Highland opened water with every stroke and finished almost ten lengths
ahead. “The Wreck of the Hesperus” returned to Freeburg at a slow and
mournful pace, the apologetic but unforgiven Gussie very low of spirit.
He had swallowed his last piece of gum.