CONCLUSION
“WESTCOTT’S by six feet!” announced Mr. Henderson, judge at the finish,
as the crowd pressed about him to learn the official verdict.
Mac and his men burst forth in a howl of joy. Trask threw up his arms
and yelled the news across the water to the crew of the quinquereme, who
went wild with excitement. Their historic boat, which had escaped the
missiles of war unscathed, very nearly succumbed to the perils of peace.
The _Veritas_, swinging round to the float after the laggard crews had
crept in, found the cutter shoved directly into its path through the
efforts of two lads who continued to chop the water vehemently while
they yelled, as oblivious to the direction they were taking as stokers
in the hold of a steamship to the course laid down by the navigator. The
Varsity manager, who was steering the launch, backed his engine and
saved the cutter for another race day.
Meantime Billy was scribbling notes on a block of yellow paper, Deering
was smiling in dignified exultation among his crew, and President John,
his face white with ill-suppressed rage, was reviling to two curious
reporters the folly of the Newbury oarsmen who had thrown away a sure
victory.
“The very best crew on the river!” he declared with emphatic spacing of
words and savage jerks of the head. “Look at the weight and strength in
that boat! Why, they pulled away from Westcott’s on Wednesday without
half trying. It was just a little practice spin for ’em. Then I got ’em
a holiday yesterday at the shore, and what did they do? Trotted round on
the rocks and played ball in the red-hot sun in sleeveless shirts! Burnt
their arms raw, of course. They didn’t get a wink of sleep all last
night.”
“Westcott’s had it on ’em to-day all right”, remarked the reporter.
“That crew looked pretty good to me!”
“It’s a fair enough sort of a crew, but they had luck and we didn’t.
That’s just what beat us, hard luck.”
Smith turned away to leave the launch, which was already fast. The
_Ledger_ man glanced after him and winked at his companion.
“Sore!” said the latter, tersely.
By this time the Westcott oarsmen had revived and brought their boat in
to the float. Here, in the forefront of the enthusiasts, stood a tall,
deep-chested young man, wearing a hatband with the revered crimson and
black vertical stripes, who shook hands with each weary rower as he left
the boat and gave him a personal compliment which was destined to remain
a cherished memory when the general events of school life should have
faded into the limbo of things forgotten. Then Deering returned to the
launch, which was soon speeding up the river to its moorings; and the
Westcott crew, already recovering from the grinding strain through the
quick recuperative power of sturdy boyhood, and too happy to heed their
exhaustion, carried their boat into the house, where they gave
themselves up to the refreshing luxury of the shower bath and the
delight of mutual congratulations.
The next day was a happy one for the boys at Westcott’s. From the older
fellows who hailed the triumph of their fortunate mates with a delight
untouched by envy, to the little chaps in knee trousers in whose eyes
the members of the first crew were as demigods, complacency and pride
pervaded the school like a mild intoxication. Mr. Westcott made a speech
of congratulation in which he expressed himself as especially pleased
that such excellent crews had been developed without interference with
the regular daily work—a sentiment which the boys, if they did not
appreciate, were, under the circumstances, willing to forgive. Pete,
too, made a speech—a jerky, inartistic, vehement little harangue,
strong in patriotism though weak in rhetoric, which was uproariously
applauded. Then the cheers were let loose, a din that made the windows
rattle and caused the neighbors for half a block to regret that they had
not fixed upon an earlier date for migrating to the quiet of the
country. “_It clamor cœlo_,” muttered Mr. Stevens, senior classical
master, with a quiet smile, and he stole away to his own recitation room
to save his ear-drums.
Almost as noisy was the welcome given a few days later to the cup
itself, when it made its second appearance before the school, coming
this time for a year’s sojourn. President John, who had gulped down the
bitter medicine which had been forced upon him, and now was trying to
forget the taste of it, sent with the trophy a flowery note which Mr.
Westcott read to an appreciative audience.
“I’ll bet he swore when he wrote that,” whispered Wilmot to his
seat-mate.
Pete nodded. “It must have come hard. When he showed the thing to us
last fall, I never expected to see it here again.”
“They probably can’t keep it another year,” said Steve, loftily. “There
won’t be much here after we leave.”
But the little boys of big faith, in the front seats, who were straining
their eyes to make out the inscription on the first shield, had not
shared the anxieties of their elders, nor did they now worry about the
year to come. They had known all along that their champions could be
trusted to bring the school colors out on top, while as for the
future—what future was there but the June examinations and the summer
vacation?
One more formality had still to be attended to before the athletic
season could be declared closed,—the election of a captain of the crew
for the next year. It was merely a formality, for, since Roger Hardie
was the only one of the five who would not graduate, the choice was
strictly limited.
“It’s a great honor to be captain of the Westcott crew,” said Roger, as
he came downstairs with Pete after the meeting, “but I wish there had
been some competition. It’s like winning a race by default.”
“You didn’t do any defaulting in the race,” replied Talbot, somewhat
illogically, “though I was a good deal troubled about you early in the
season. I had a guilty conscience for several weeks.”
“Why?”
“Because I had prevented your being made captain of the eleven.”
“I knew you did. You didn’t think I was fit for it. I didn’t blame you.”
“Nonsense! I wanted you for the crew captain next year. I took long
odds, and I couldn’t explain because I couldn’t be sure you’d make good.
At one time I thought you never would.”
Roger gave a laugh of contentment. “I was an awful dub at first. Wilmot
wanted to fire me out of the pair-oar.”
“And I wouldn’t let him,” said Pete, complacently. “I thought you had
the stuff in you, if we could only bring it out. Next year you’ll be
first lord of the school, and I shall be lost among six hundred
freshmen.”
“Lost!” echoed Roger, derisively. “Anybody can find _you_ easy enough,
if he’ll only search the freshman boat. Your seat will be down somewhere
near the stern.”
THE END.
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
○ Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were only made consistent
when a predominant form was found in this book: e.g. “practice”
and “programe.”
○ Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).