with young Prescott’s weight removed from the rail. She reeled under
the gust as a tree bows in a storm, bent gracefully before it, and
then turned over slowly on her side.
[Illustration: As the two Prescotts scrambled up on the gunwale of
their boat, the defeated crew saluted them with cheers.]
The next instant the _Wave_ swept by her, and as the two Prescotts
scrambled up on the gunwale of their boat, the defeated crew saluted
them with cheers, in response to which the victors bowed as gracefully
as their uncertain position would permit.
The new arrival, who had come to Manasquan in the hope of finding
something to shoot, stood among the people on the bank and discharged
his gun until the barrels were so hot that he had to lay the gun down
to cool. And every other man and boy who owned a gun or pistol of any
sort, fired it off and yelled at the same time, as if the contents
of the gun or pistol had entered his own body. Unfortunately, every
boat possessed a tin horn with which the helmsman was wont to signal
the keeper of the drawbridge. One evil-minded captain blew a blast
of triumph on his horn, and in a minute’s time the air was rent with
tootings as vicious as those of the steam whistle of a locomotive.
The _Wave_ just succeeded in reaching the dock before she settled and
sank. A dozen of Chadwick’s boarders seized the crew by their coat
collars and arms, as they leaped from the sinking boat to the pier, and
assisted them to their feet, forgetful in the excitement of the moment
that the sailors were already as wet as sponges on their native rocks.
“I suppose I should have stuck to my ship as Prescott did,” said the
captain of the _Wave_ with a smile, pointing to where the judges’ boat
was towing in the _Rover_ with her crew still clinging to her side;
“but I’d already thrown you my rope, you know, and there really isn’t
anything heroic in sticking to a sinking ship when she goes down in two
feet of water.”
As soon as the Prescotts reached the pier, they pushed their way to
their late rivals and shook them heartily by their hands. Then the
Atlantic House people carried their crew around on their shoulders, and
the two Chadwick’s crews were honored in the same embarrassing manner.
The proprietor of the Atlantic House invited the entire Chadwick
establishment over to a dance and a late supper.
“I prepared it for the victors,” he said, “and though these victors
don’t happen to be the ones I prepared it for, the victors must eat
it.”
The sun had gone down for over half an hour before the boats and
carriages had left the Chadwick dock, and the Chadwick people had an
opportunity to rush home to dress. They put on their very best clothes,
“just to show the Atlantic people that they _had_ something else
besides flannels,” and danced in the big hall of the Atlantic House
until late in the evening.
When the supper was served, the victors were toasted and cheered and
presented with a beautiful set of colors, and then Judge Carter made a
stirring speech.
He went over the history of the rival houses in a way that pleased
everybody, and made all the people at the table feel ashamed of
themselves for ever having been rivals at all.
He pointed out in courtly phrases how excellent and varied were the
modern features of the Atlantic House, and yet how healthful and
satisfying was the old-fashioned simplicity of Chadwick’s. He expressed
the hope that the two houses would learn to appreciate each other’s
virtues, and hoped that in the future they would see more of each
other.
To which sentiment everybody assented most noisily and
enthusiastically, and the proprietor of the Atlantic House said that,
in his opinion, Judge Carter’s speech was one of the finest he had
ever listened to, and he considered that part of it which touched on
the excellent attractions of the Atlantic House as simply sublime,
and that, with his Honor’s permission, he intended to use it in his
advertisements and circulars, with Judge Carter’s name attached.
RICHARD CARR’S BABY.
A few years ago, all the boys living in the town of Princeton who were
at that age when it is easy to remember the fall, winter, spring, and
summer as the foot-ball, coasting, swimming, and base-ball seasons,
regarded Richard Carr as embodying their ideal of human greatness.
When they read in the history primers how George Washington became the
Father of his Country, they felt sure that with a like opportunity
Richard Carr would come to the front and be the stepfather of his
country at least.
They lay in wait for him at the post-office, and as soon as he came in
sight, would ask for his mail and run to give it to him; they would go
ahead of him on the other side of the street, and cross over and meet
him with a very important “How do you do, Mr. Carr?” and were quite
satisfied if he gave them an amused “Hello!” in return.
They hung photographs of him and the woodcuts from the daily papers
around their rooms, and their efforts to imitate his straight, military
walk, with shoulders squared and head erect, were of great benefit to
their lungs and personal appearance.
Those ragged hangers-on of the college, too, who picked up odd dimes
from the students, by carrying baggage and chasing tennis balls, waited
on Richard Carr, and shouted “Hurrah for you, Carr!” whenever that
worthy walked by.
Those who have not already guessed the position which Richard Carr held
in the college will be surprised to learn that he was captain of the
college foot-ball team, and those who cannot understand the admiration
that Arthur Waller, and Willie Beck, and the rest of the small fry of
Princeton felt for this young man would better stop here--for neither
will they understand this story.
Among all these young hero-worshippers, Richard Carr’s most devoted
follower was Arthur Waller--for, while the other boys, looking upon
Carr as their ideal, hoped in time that they might themselves be even
as great as he, Arthur felt that to him, this glorious possibility
must be denied. Arthur was neither strong nor sturdy, and could, he
knew, never hope to be like the captain of the foot-ball team, whose
strength and physique seemed, for this reason, all the grander to him.
He never ran after Carr, nor tried to draw his attention as the others
did; he was content to watch and form his own ideas about his hero from
a distance. Richard Carr was more than the captain of the team to him.
He was the one person who, above all others, had that which Arthur
lacked--strength; and so Arthur did not merely envy him,--he worshipped
him.
Although Arthur Waller was somewhat older in his way of thinking than
his friends, he enjoyed the same games they enjoyed, and would have
liked to play them, if he had been able; but, as he was not, the
boys usually asked him to keep the score, or to referee the matches
they played on the cow pasture with one of the college’s cast-off
foot-balls. On the whole, the boys were very good to Arthur.
It was the first part of the last half of the Yale-Princeton foot-ball
match, played on the Princeton grounds. The modest grand stand was
filled with young ladies and college boys, while all the townspeople
covered the fences and carriages, and crowded closely on the
whitewashed lines, cheering and howling at the twenty-two very dirty,
very determined, and very cool young men who ran, rushed, dodged, and
“tackled” in the open space before them,--the most interested and least
excited individuals on the grounds.
Arthur Waller had crept between the spectators until he had reached the
very front of the crowd, and had stood through the first half of the
game with bated breath, his finger-nails pressed into his palms, and
his eyes following only one of the players. He was entirely too much
excited to shout or call as the others did; and he was perfectly silent
except for the little gasps of fear he gave involuntarily when Richard
Carr struck the ground with more than the usual number of men on top of
him.
Suddenly, Mr. Hobbes, of Yale, kicked the ball, but kicked it sideways;
and so, instead of going straight down the field, it turned and
whirled over the heads of the crowd and settled among the carriages. A
panting little Yale man tore wildly after it, beseeching Mr. Hobbes,
in agonizing tones, to put him “on side.” Mr. Hobbes ran past the spot
where the ball would strike, and the Yale man dashed after it through
the crowd. Behind him, his hair flying, his eyes fixed on the ball
over his head, every muscle on a strain, came Richard Carr. He went
at the people blindly, and they tumbled over one another like a flock
of sheep, in their efforts to clear the way for him. With his head in
the air, he did not see Arthur striving to get out of his way; he only
heard a faint cry of pain when he stumbled for an instant, and, looking
back, saw the crowd closing around a little boy who was lying very
still and white, but who was not crying. Richard Carr stopped as he ran
back, and setting Arthur on his feet, asked, “Are you hurt, youngster?”
But, as Arthur only stared at him and said nothing, the champion
hurried on again into the midst of the fray.
* * * * *
“There is one thing we must have before the next match,” said the
manager of the team, as the players were gathered in the dressing-rooms
after the game, “and that is a rope to keep the people back. They
_will_ crowd on the field, and get in the way of the half-backs, and,
besides, it is not safe for them to stand so near. Carr knocked over a
little boy this afternoon, and hurt him quite badly, I believe.”
“What’s that?” said Richard Carr, turning from the group of substitutes
who were explaining how they would have played the game and tendering
congratulations.
“I was saying,” continued the manager, “that we ought to have a rope to
keep the people off the field; they interfere with the game; and they
say that you hurt a little fellow when you ran into the crowd during
the last half.”
“Those boys shouldn’t be allowed to stand in front there,” said Richard
Carr; “but I didn’t know I hurt him. Who was he? where does he live? Do
you know?”
“It was the widow Waller’s son, sir,” volunteered Sam, the colored
attendant. “That’s her house with the trees around it; you can see the
roof from here. I think that’s where they took him.”
“Took him!” exclaimed Richard Carr, catching up his great-coat. “Was he
so badly hurt? You wait until I come back, Sam.”
A pale, gentle-faced woman, who looked as if she had been crying,
came to the door when Richard Carr rang the bell of the cottage which
had been pointed out to him from the athletic grounds. When she saw
his foot-ball costume, the look of welcome on her face died out very
suddenly.
“Does the little boy live here who was hurt on the athletic grounds?”
asked Richard Carr, wondering if it could have been the doctor she was
expecting.
“Yes, sir,” answered the lady, coldly.
“I came to see how he was; I am the man who ran against him. I wish
to explain to you how it happened--I suppose you are Mrs. Waller?”
(Richard Carr hesitated, and bowed, but the lady only bowed her head in
return, and said nothing.) “It was accidental, of course,” continued
Carr. “He was in the crowd when I ran in after the ball; it was flying
over our heads, and I was looking up at it and didn’t see him. I hope
he is all right now.” Before the lady could answer, Richard Carr’s eyes
wandered from her face and caught sight of a little figure lying on a
sofa in the wide hall. Stepping across the floor as lightly as he could
in his heavy shoes, Carr sat down beside Arthur on the sofa. “Well, old
man,” he said, taking Arthur’s hands in his, “I hope I didn’t hurt you
much. No bones broken,--are there? You were very plucky not to cry. It
was a very hard fall, and I’m very, very sorry; but I didn’t see you,
you know.”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Arthur, quickly, with his eyes fixed on Richard
Carr’s face. “I knew you didn’t see me, and I thought maybe you would
come when you heard I was hurt. I don’t mind it a bit, from you.
Because Willie Beck says--he is the captain of our team, you know--that
you wouldn’t hurt any one if you could help it; he says you never hit
a man on the field unless he’s playing foul or trying to hurt some of
your team.”
Richard Carr doubted whether this recital of his virtues would appeal
as strongly to Mrs. Waller as it did to Arthur, so he said, “And who is
Willie Beck?”
“Willie Beck! Why, don’t you know Willie Beck?” exclaimed Arthur, who
was rapidly losing his awe of Richard Carr. “He says he knows you; he
is the boy who holds your coat for you during the practice games.”
Richard Carr saw he was running a risk of hurting some young admirer’s
feelings, so he said, “Oh, yes, the boy who holds my coat for me. And
he is the captain of your team, is he? Well, the next time you play,
you wear this cap and tell Willie Beck and the rest of the boys that I
gave it to you because you were so plucky when I knocked you down.”
With these words he pressed his orange and black cap into Arthur’s hand
and rose to go, but Arthur looked so wistfully at him, and then at the
captain’s cap, that he stopped.
“I’d like to wear it, Mr. Carr,” he said slowly. “I’d like to, ever so
much, Mamma,” he added, turning his eyes to where Mrs. Waller stood
looking out at the twilight and weeping softly,--“but you see, sir, I
don’t play myself. I generally referee. I’m not very strong, sir, not
at present; but I will be some day,--won’t I, Mamma? And the doctor
says I must keep quiet until I am older, and not play games that are
rough. For he says if I got a shock or a fall I might not get over it,
or it might put me back--and I do so want to get well just as soon as
I can. You see, sir, it’s my spine----”
Richard Carr gave a sharp gasp of pain and dropped on his knees beside
the sofa, and buried his face beside the boy’s on the pillow, with his
arms thrown tightly around his shoulder.
For a moment Arthur looked at him startled and distressed, and patted
Richard Carr’s broad back to comfort him; and then he cried:
“Oh, but I didn’t mean to blame _you_, Mr. Carr! I know you didn’t see
me. Don’t you worry about me, Mr. Carr. I’m going to get well some day.
Indeed I am, sir!”
* * * * *
Whether it was that the surgeon whom Richard Carr’s father sent on from
New York knew more about Arthur’s trouble than the other doctors did,
or whether it was that Richard Carr saw that Arthur had many medicines,
pleasant and unpleasant, which his mother had been unable to get for
him, I do not know,--but I do know that Arthur got better day by day.
And day after day, Richard Carr stopped on his way to the field,
and on his way back again, to see his “Baby,” as he called him, and
to answer the numerous questions put to him by Arthur’s companions.
They always assembled at the hour of Richard Carr’s arrival in order
to share some of the glory that had fallen on their comrade, and to
cherish and carry away whatever precious thoughts Richard Carr might
let drop concerning foot-ball, or the weather, or any other vital topic
on which his opinion was decisive.
As soon as the doctor said Arthur could be moved, Richard Carr used to
stop for him in a two-seated carriage and drive him in state to the
foot-ball field. And after he had drawn up the carriage where Arthur
could get a good view of the game, he would hand over the reins to one
of those vulture-like individuals who hover around the field of battle,
waiting for some one to be hurt, and who are known as “substitutes.” In
his orange and black uniform, one of these fellows made a very gorgeous
coachman indeed.
And though the students might yell, and the townspeople shout ever so
loudly, Richard Carr only heard one shrill little voice, which called
to him above all the others; and as that voice got stronger day by day,
Richard Carr got back his old spirit and interest in the game, which,
since the Yale match, he seemed to have lost.
The team said Richard Carr’s “Baby” brought them luck, and they called
him their “Mascot,” and presented him with a flag of the college
colors; and when the weather grew colder they used to smother him in
their white woollen jerseys, so that he looked like a fat polar bear.
It was a very pretty sight, indeed, to see how Richard Carr and the
rest of the team, whenever they had scored or had made a good play,
would turn first for their commendation to where Arthur sat perched
above the crowd, waving his flag, his cheeks all aglow, and the
substitute’s arm around him to keep him from falling over in his
excitement. And the other teams who came to play at Princeton soon
learned about the captain’s “Baby,” and inquired if he were on the
field; and if he was, they would go up and gravely shake hands with
him, as with some celebrated individual holding a public reception.
Richard Carr is out West now at the head of a great sheep ranch, and
Arthur Waller enters Princeton next year. I do not know whether he will
be on the team, though he is strong enough; but I am sure he will help
to hand down the fame of Richard Carr, and that he will do it in such
a way that his hero will be remembered as the possessor of certain
qualities, perhaps not so highly prized, but almost as excellent, as
were those which fitted him to be captain of the team.
THE GREAT TRI-CLUB TENNIS TOURNAMENT.
Charles Coleridge Grace, as he was called by the sporting editors,
or Charley Grace, as he was known about college, had held the tennis
championship of his Alma Mater ever since he had been a freshman.
Even before that eventful year he had carried off so many silver cups
and highly ornamented racquets at the different tournaments all over
the country, that his entering college was quite as important an event
to the college as it was to Charles.
His career was not marked by the winning of any scholarships, nor
by any brazen prominence in the way of first honors; and though the
president may have wondered at the frequency of his applications to
attend funerals, marriages, and the family dentist, he was always
careful to look the other way when he met him hurrying to the station
with three racquets in one hand and a travelling bag in the other.
Nor was he greatly surprised to read in the next morning’s paper that
“this brought the winner of the last set and Charles Coleridge Grace
together in the finals, which were won by Mr. Grace, 6-4, 6-4, 6-2.”
It was near the end of the first term in Grace’s junior year, and at
the time when the dates of tournaments and examinations were hopelessly
clashing, that he received another of many invitations to attend an
open tournament. This particular circular announced that the N. L. T.
A. of the United States had given the Hilltown Tennis Club permission
to hold on their own grounds a tournament for the championship of the
State.
Mr. Grace was cordially invited to participate, not only through the
formal wording of the circular, but in a note of somewhat extravagant
courtesy signed by the club’s secretary.
Hilltown is a very pretty place, and some of its people are very
wealthy. They see that it has good roads for their village-carts and
landaus to roll over, and their Queen Anne cottages are distinctly
ornamental to the surrounding landscape.
They have also laid out and inclosed eight tennis-courts of both clay
and turf, to suit every one’s taste, and have erected a club-house
which is apparently fashioned after no one’s. Every year Hilltown
invited the neighboring tennis-clubs of Malvern and Pineville to
compete with them in an interclub tournament, and offered handsome
prizes which were invariably won by representatives of Hilltown.
But this year, owing chiefly to the energies of Mr. C. Percy Clay,
the club’s enthusiastic secretary, Hilltown had been allowed to hold
a tournament on its own tennis-ground for the double and single
championship of the State. This honor necessitated the postponement of
the annual tri-club meeting until ten days after the championship games
had been played.
The team who did the playing for the Hilltown club were two young men
locally known as the Slade brothers.
They were not popular, owing to their assuming an air of superiority
over every one in the town, from their father down to C. Percy Clay.
But as they had won every prize of which the tennis-club could boast,
they of necessity enjoyed a prominence which their personal conduct
alone could not have gained for them.
Charles Grace arrived at Hilltown one Wednesday morning. All but the
final game of the doubles had been played off on the two days previous,
and the singles were to be begun and completed that afternoon. The
grounds were well filled when he reached them, and looked as pretty as
only pretty tennis-grounds can look when they are gay with well-dressed
girls, wonderfully bright blazers, and marquees of vividly brilliant
stripes.
Grace found the list of entries to the singles posted up in the
club-house, and discovered that they were few in number, and that there
was among them only one name that was familiar to him.
As he turned away from the list, two very young and bright-faced boys,
in very well-worn flannels, came up the steps of the club-house just as
one of the Slades was leaving it.
“Hullo,” said Slade, “you back again?”
It was such an unusual and impertinent welcome that Grace paused in
some surprise and turned to listen.
The eldest of the boys laughed good-naturedly and said: “Yes, we’re
here, Mr. Slade. You know we drew a bye, and so we play in the finals.”
“Well, of course you’ll play my brother and myself then. I hope the
novelty of playing in the last round won’t paralyze you. If it doesn’t,
we will,” he added with a short laugh. “I say, Ed,” he continued,
turning to his elder brother, “here are Merton and his partner come all
the way from Malvern to play in the finals. They might have saved their
car-fare, don’t you think?”
The elder brother scowled at the unfortunate representatives of Malvern.
“You don’t really mean to make us stand out here in the hot sun fooling
with you, do you?” he asked impatiently. “You’ll only make a spectacle
of yourselves. Why don’t you drop out? We’ve beaten you often enough
before, I should think, to suit you, and we want to begin the singles.”
But the Malvern youths were not to be browbeaten. They said they knew
they would be defeated, but that the people at Malvern were very
anxious to have them play, and had insisted on their coming up. “They
wish to see what sort of a chance we have for the tri-club tournament,
next week,” they explained.
“Well, we’ll show what sort of chance you have with a vengeance,”
laughed one of the brothers. “But it really is hard on us.”
The two boys flushed, and one of them began hotly, “Let me tell you,
Mr. Slade,”--but the other put his hand on his arm, saying, “What’s the
use?” and pushed him gently toward the grounds.
The Slades went into the club-house grumbling.
“Nice lot, those home players,” soliloquized Grace. “I’ll pound the
life out of them for that!”
He was still more inclined to revenge the Malvern youths later, after
their defeat by the Slades,--which was not such a bad defeat after all,
as they had won one of the four sets, and scored games in the others.
But the Slades, with complete disregard for all rules of hospitality
to say nothing of the etiquette of tennis, kept up a running comment
of ridicule and criticism on their hopeful opponents’ play, and, much
to Grace’s disgust, the spectators laughed and encouraged them. The
visitors struggled hard, but everything was against them; they did not
understand playing as a team, and though they were quick and sure-eyed
enough, and their service was wonderfully strong, the partiality of
the crowd “rattled” them, and the ridicule of their opponents was not
likely to put them more at their ease.
The man who had been asked to umpire with Grace was a college man,
and they both had heard all that went on across the net in the final
round. So when their duties were over, they went up to the defeated
Malvernites and shook hands with them, and said something kind to them
about their playing.
But the cracks did not congratulate the winners. Indeed, they were so
disgusted with the whole affair that they refused to be lionized by
Mr. Clay and the spectators in any way, but went off to the hotel in
the village for luncheon,--which desertion rendered the spread on the
grounds as flat as a coming-of-age dinner with the comer-of-age left
out.