THE FINAL STRUGGLE
PRESIDENT JOHN hurried from the launch to the Newbury crew, who were
stiffly disembarking at the side of the float.
“A splendid race!” he cried exultantly, as he grasped the hand of the
victorious captain; “a splendid race! That’s the way to do the
thing,—get the lead in the first half of the course and hold it. And
you had plenty of strength in reserve, too, didn’t you?”
Downs glanced a little doubtfully at his men. “I think so.”
“You’ll do it easier next time,” asserted the distinguished man. “A
defeat like this breaks the spirit of a crew. What you want now is a
good rest. I’ll see if I can’t get you a holiday for to-morrow.”
“That would be great! Do you think you can?”
President John’s knowing smile suggested mysterious reaches of influence
which he was much too modest to mention. “I guess it can be arranged. We
can’t afford to take any risks. The first name on that cup has got to be
Newbury Latin.”
Westcott’s paddled in to the float, turning their boat over directly to
Bainbridge Latin. Roger stripped for the shower in silence with lowering
face.
“How do you feel now it’s over?” asked Pete, after staring for some
seconds at his sullen companion. “All in?”
“No! Mad and disgusted!”
“You’ve nothing to be disgusted about,” said Eaton. “Rust says you
pulled like a fiend the whole way. I’m the one to be disgusted. I didn’t
row myself out at all.”
“That’s just it! If Pete had put up the stroke two minutes earlier, we’d
have left ’em behind half a length! Now they’ll crow and the newspapers
will call us a sandy but outclassed crew, and half the fellows will
believe it.”
“Cut out the growling!” commanded the captain. “What I did was right,
and I’d do it again. I didn’t know how you fellows were standing it, and
there was no use in killing ourselves, with the finals on for day after
to-morrow. But I’ll give you one sure pointer: you’ll have all the
spurting you want on Friday.”
“Bring on your spurt!” snapped the bow oar. “We’ll meet you.”
Roger felt calmer after his shower—calm enough to regret his rash
boast. Pete had the pluck inherent in good blood, the indomitable spirit
that faces odds undaunted, and only fails when brain and body can no
longer serve it,—and Pete was not one to forget. It was a foolish thing
to say, especially for an inexperienced oar who had rowed but one race
in his life, but as the boast could not now be retracted, the only
course for Roger to pursue was to carry it out. This he secretly
resolved to do if his good-for-nothing legs didn’t go back on him.
The papers next morning were scanned with eagerness. They generally
considered that first place in the finals would lie between Bainbridge
Latin, which had run away from its rivals in the second heat, and
Newbury, with Westcott’s a good third. All agreed that Westcott’s was
likely to win the race for seconds.
“It’s a wonder they concede that much,” said Pete, sarcastically. “They
always act surprised if we win anything.”
Dickie Sumner, made audacious by the knowledge that he was the bearer of
important news, came pushing into the group of older boys that filled
the big bay window. “Have you heard about the Newbury crew’s getting a
holiday?” he demanded.
His brother Jack seized him roughly. “What is it?”
“They’re going down to Cohasset to spend to-day and to-night. They
aren’t coming back to school until ten o’clock to-morrow, and they don’t
have to prepare any lessons.”
“Who told you?” asked Jack, suspiciously.
“Winny Thorne. I saw him on the car. His brother’s on their crew.”
“And we’ve got to stay here all day and study all the evening on
to-morrow’s lessons!” exclaimed Louis. “It’s a roast!”
“They ought to let the first crew off, anyway,” said Eaton. “The second
doesn’t need it so much.”
“They could come down with me to Manchester,” offered Rust. “The house
is open, and I could take care of five perfectly well.”
“Do you suppose the old man would let us?” asked Eaton.
Talbot considered. “He might, if we could make him see that it’s
necessary. I’ll try him, anyway.”
After the opening Bible-reading, the captain of the crew followed Mr.
Westcott to the office. He returned in three minutes, crestfallen. “It’s
no go,” he passed the news along. “He wouldn’t even discuss it.”
Some very sour faces scowled over the tops of books for the next
half-hour. Those near the windows stole occasional glances into the
street and across to the Garden beyond. It was a perfect June day, warm
and quiet, with limpid air sleepily stirring and the sun beaming
benignly over all. The autos of the unimprisoned idle slid by in endless
succession, bearing their fortunate occupants whithersoever fancy
called. The new green leaves on the trees in the Garden quivered
soothingly over the groups of nurses and perambulators and playing
children, and the poverty-blessed loafers slouching in unambitious
contentment on the benches. And this beautiful day Newbury could enjoy,
care-free, on the rocks at Cohasset, while the Westcott fellows were
mewed up in a stuffy schoolroom, grinding out loathsome lessons. It was
wicked!
The day passed as others before it. Lessons had to be learned and
recitations made. That night every oarsman was pledged to be in bed at
half-past nine. Out at Adams’s all noise was forbidden after nine
o’clock, on pain of frightful tortures. Roger slept ten hours without a
break, and awoke at sound of the rising bell, feeling strong enough to
row the race alone.
The school hours of Friday dragged out their wonted course. At two,
Talbot was called to the telephone, and emerged, chuckling tremendously,
to meet McDowell at the foot of the stairs.
“It’s the biggest joke I ever heard. The Newbury fellows sat round on
the rocks all day yesterday in sleeveless shirts, and burnt their arms
so that they couldn’t sleep at all last night. And we slept like tops!”
“Gee, but that’s great!” crowed Mac. “I hope the old man won’t hear
about it, though!”
“Where you going?” demanded the captain, as Mac started up the stairs.
“You ought to be getting out to the boat-house.”
“Volunteer French,” answered Mac, calmly. “I can’t afford to miss it. I
only got fifty on my last exam. The race doesn’t come till three-thirty.
I’ll be out in time.”
Talbot gaped after the lithe figure as it scurried up the stairs.
“After-school work on the day of the race!” he gasped. “And Newbury with
two days off! This is a pretty school!”
Mac turned up at three o’clock, whistling as unconcernedly as if he were
out for an ordinary practice, quite undisturbed by the reproaches hurled
at his head. By the time he was dressed the _Veritas_ was in sight,
bringing the whole Varsity crew to see the races, and sailing under the
command of Deering himself. President John again elected to go on the
launch, convinced that here his light would shine more brilliantly, and
desiring to make sure in advance of the best vantage-point from which to
gloat over the whole triumphant course of his crew when the great race
came off.
The atmosphere on the launch that day was unfavorable to the shining of
lesser lights. Deering’s authority and Deering’s personality dominated
the little craft. Though the Varsity captain spoke pleasantly to the
referee, discussed the arrangement for sending off the boats with the
starter, and greeted one of the newspaper reporters cordially as
“Billy,” he ignored completely the presence of the father of the
Triangular League, who sat obscurely in the stern, scowling with
affected indifference over his cigarette.
“He won’t speak to me, eh! Just like a Westcott snob!” the president
muttered to himself. “What do I care? He won’t be so proud when he sees
Newbury lead his school by four or five lengths. I hope Yale will lick
his crew to their knees!”—a feat, by the way, which Yale failed to
achieve by some quarter of a mile.
To the Varsity men in the bow of the _Veritas_, the race for second
crews seemed a tame affair. Westcott’s got a lead of half a length at
the start, increased it to a whole one at the quarter, doubled this
advantage during the next half mile, and added still another length in a
pretty display-spurt beyond the bridge. Hoarse and happy, Mike brought
his boat in to the float past a crowd of yelling, dancing friends who
were putting to an extreme test the boasted stability of the old Spanish
cutter. The members of the first crew, delighted to consider the
complete victory of their schoolmates a good omen for their own race,
helped Mac and his men out of their boat and poured sweet praises into
their ears.
“Nothing like a little extra French after school to get you ready for a
race,” panted Mac, as Talbot wrung his hand and blessed him with a dozen
different kinds of exclamation. “I hope you fellows won’t suffer from
lack of it.”
“Suffer from lack of it, you old idiot! Do you suppose we have strength
to throw away?”
“Get a lead in the beginning,” urged Mac, becoming serious. “It’s a lot
easier to keep it than to get it after you’ve lost it. Newbury will quit
if you can once show them your rudder.”
Pete nodded.
“And drive your crew,” continued Mac. “They can stand a lot more than
they did on Wednesday.”
“I think they’ll have a chance for all the work they want to do. I’ll
try to satisfy even Roger.”
Bow oar reddened, but said nothing. He knew well that Pete would push
the crew to its last gasp, and he had doubts as to his ability to hold
his own with the hard-muscled, strong-headed stroke, who was as
incapable of yielding as the Old Guard of surrendering, or the dying
bulldog of relinquishing his grip on his enemy. There was one method, of
course, by which Roger could meet the strain, and come out fresh at the
end to smile at Pete’s challenge. He might weaken just a little on his
pull as the labor told, might put a trifle less than his best into his
stroke, and thus shrewdly save himself from extreme exhaustion. But to
do that was to be a quitter, and bow oar’s scorn for a quitter was equal
to Pete’s. “I’ll give him all I’ve got, anyway,” he said to himself. “If
I break, it will be because I can’t row any more, not because I won’t.”
There was trouble in starting. Westcott’s and Bainbridge got twice into
position and drifted away again before the others, shuffling for places,
reached the line. Waterville was badly cox-swained; Newbury apparently
loitered on purpose, hoping, after the manner of certain Varsity crews
at New London, to worry opponents by prolonged suspense. So at least
Pete opined, and his word, passed back through the boat, set four pairs
of jaws tight together and swamped all nervous fear under a hot wave of
determination. When the pistol-shot rang forth, Newbury’s oar-blades
were already in the water. As the stroke lengthened out, after a hundred
yards, Newbury and Bainbridge were neck and neck, half a length ahead of
Westcott’s, which was rowing a steady, smooth stroke which looked like
an exhibition of skill, yet carried with it the united heave of four
straining bodies.
“Those Westcott fellows aren’t bad,” said Deering, who stood beside
reporter Billy and watched the struggling oarsmen with the eye of an
expert. “They move well, catch together, and get their hands away
quickly.”
“Good crew!” answered Billy, wisely, “but too light to last well.
They’re coming up on Newbury now. It’s about time for Bainbridge to
shake ’em both.”
Deering was silent for some seconds, gazing with that concentration of
attention which a horse fancier gives to the movements of a blooded
steed. “That crew is going to be hard to shake,” he said finally.
“They’ve got a half length on Newbury without raising the stroke more
than a point. There’s hardly any check between strokes.”
“And Bainbridge has got a length,” said Billy, significantly.
In the Westcott boat Rust was urging Two to be careful about his slide,
and informing Talbot of the relative position of the crews. Pete raised
the stroke slightly, and his crew pushed a whole length ahead of
Newbury, which likewise spurted, but lost through inferior form the
advantage gained by the accelerated stroke.
“Halfway!” yelled Rust. “We’ve got a good length on Newbury. Steady now!
Hard all the way through! Don’t rush your slide, Two!”
Talbot held to the increased stroke, sure that the critical moment of
the contest with Newbury was at hand; if he could open water between the
boats, he was confident that Newbury would never rally. His men followed
him in splendid unison. For Roger the first great weariness had passed.
He was rowing mechanically now, putting into his drive all the strength
which he thought safe to force from himself, his whole attention
concentrated on his oar and his slide and the back of the man before
him. He heard the four blasts of the whistle which announced that
Bainbridge was leading, but he cared little for that; he was rowing to
beat Newbury, and Newbury was behind!
“Open water!” exclaimed Billy. “Half a length of open water! I wish I
had taken that bet of three to one on Newbury against Westcott’s.
Newbury’s out of it for sure.”
“Not yet!” said a stifled voice at his elbow. “I’m not giving up yet.
They’ll come up on ’em. They’ve got to.”
Billy turned to find John Smith at his side, occupying the place of the
Harvard captain who had gone aft to his crew. President John’s eyes were
fixed upon the Westcott boat in a hostile glare, his hands tightly
gripping the rail, his face drawn with suppressed emotion.
“Make it up!” answered the unsympathetic Billy. “How are they going to
make up two lengths against that crew? Why, the more they try to spurt,
the worse they row! Number Three there is about all in now. You can see
it yourself.”
“Bainbridge will beat ’em anyway,” muttered Smith, fiercely. “Go it,
Bainbridge! Kill ’em, Bainbridge!”
[Illustration: “GO IT, BAINBRIDGE! KILL ’EM, BAINBRIDGE!”]
Billy threw a glance of curiosity at his neighbor’s face and grinned
broadly. “Been betting heavy against Westcott’s and feels sore,” he said
to himself; but Billy was mistaken. It wasn’t a losing wager that
charged that face with venom, but defeat and wounded vanity. President
John considered himself a sportsman; in fact he was only a partisan;
rabid, narrow, unforgiving. He hated the crew that was vanquishing his
own, that was stealing from him the triumph which he had confidently
expected and in the prospect of which he had openly gloried.
The crews were close to the bridge now. Roger longed for the comfort of
its shadow, longed for the word of the coxswain that the end was near.
He felt now as he swung forward to his catch that he had but a
half-dozen more strokes in his body. To row another hundred yards seemed
absolutely impossible.
“Bainbridge only two-thirds of a length ahead!” shouted Rust. In answer
Pete bellowed over his shoulder: “Get into it now! Don’t quit!” Roger
felt the stroke quicken and mechanically followed. For the first time
during the race the remembrance of Pete’s challenge recurred to him. He
was worn and weak; his eyes bleared, his head was a dull depressing
weight upon his shoulders, every muscle in his body cried aloud for
mercy; but his spirit rose in defiance and sent along the quivering
nerves a command which the muscles could not disobey.
“Only half a length now!” cried Rust, as the boat emerged beyond the
bridge. “You can do it, only twelve more!”
Talbot lifted his stroke another notch, and Rust counted. At each pull
Roger assured himself that he could do one more, and threw into that one
all the power that was in him. He could hardly see Eaton’s back as it
swayed before him. The race had lost interest for him; he was fighting
Talbot, proving that he was no quitter.
“Seven—eight,” counted Rust. “Pull! Pull! You’re almost there!”
Four more! To Roger those four strokes seemed like four of the labors of
Hercules. He could do but one before he broke,—but one more after that.
Dizziness came sweeping over him, he gasped hard for breath. One more
before he fainted!—
“Let her run!” screamed the coxswain.
Roger dropped, but caught himself by a supreme effort as Pete turned his
dripping, heaving shoulder to look at his crew. Over the stooping bodies
of Three and Two he saw the upright form of Bow, smiled faintly, and
lurched heavily forward, while Rust splashed water into his face. Behind
him Bow slumped down upon his oar.
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