THE LAST RACE
Blackie and Wally were up at the first crack of dawn; it was to prove an
active day for them, and they had no mind to get a late start. After a
hearty breakfast provided by Mrs. Woods, they took the road south on
foot. The grateful farmer offered to harness his team and drive them
back to camp, but Wally knew that he was needed to tend his stock, and
courteously refused.
“We’ll take the road down the valley and over the mountains,” explained
Wally as the two hiked side by side down the yellow road. “It’s a bit
longer than straight over the ridge, but we’ll avoid a lot of tough
going, and save time in the long run.”
Blackie was not sorry to be tramping along in Wally’s company on that
bright summer morning. His clothing had been neatly brushed and cleaned
by the farmer’s motherly wife, and his rescued blankets were strapped
over one shoulder. The sky was a lustrous, enamelled blue; the fields
and thickets sparkled with dewdrops; and a cheerful chorus of birds
chirruped a marching song for them. The way led down the valley of the
Flatstone, running on a wooded height above the wandering creek.
Occasionally they passed orchards and farmhouses, lazy in the sun; once
they climbed a spur of the hills and looked down upon a great red mill,
with a plashing race of water leaping down through the dripping teeth of
a clacking wooden wheel. Several times they were passed by farmers
driving wagons or cars, but always they were heading the opposite way,
toward the Center; and the two hikers were not fortunate enough to get a
lift. As they went they chatted gaily, and all the grim hours of
Blackie’s flight and bondage seemed like the half-remembered fragments
of a nightmare.
By ten o’clock they had reached the crossroads, beside a steepled little
schoolhouse with a yard overgrown with weeds, and halted several minutes
before turning eastward.
“This route is longer than I thought,” observed Wally. “We’re only about
half-way back to Lenape now, and we still have the hardest part of the
journey ahead. I thought we might be back in camp by this time. You see,
to-day we hold the big regatta and water-sports. Every fellow in Camp
Shawnee will have come down from Iron Lake to compete with our swimmers
and divers, and I should be on hand to take the entries and run the
meet.”
“It’s my fault you’re not there now,” said Blackie. “If I hadn’t run
away, everything would have been all right.”
“If you hadn’t run away, two desperate characters wouldn’t be in jail
to-day, facing trial for murder,” pointed out the leader. “That’s the
way of the world—there’s no situation so bad that courage and brainwork
can’t mend it, and many a bad start has ended with a whirlwind finish.”
“Then if I hadn’t told a lie in camp, I wouldn’t have been kangarooed
and would never have left, and would never have found Lew and Reno up in
the mountains. But all the same, I’m done with lying—forever.”
“That’s a peach of a resolution to make,” agreed Wally. “Lying is either
cowardly or silly, and a Lenape camper doesn’t want to be either. And
now let’s be off; we won’t get back to camp just by talking about it.”
He leaped to his feet and they trudged off up the mountain road at a
smart pace. Blackie’s short legs had some difficulty in matching the
mile-devouring stride of the councilor, but he did not complain,
although it had grown exceedingly hot and dusty, and it seemed as if the
succession of ridges across which they passed would never end. Each time
they would surmount a summit, Blackie told himself that it must be the
last; and each time he would find another belt of road stretching on
ahead and another ridge to cross. A little after noon they sighted a
fine-looking farm in the center of the hills, and on the shady porch sat
a red-cheeked man with drooping mustaches. He was clinking out a lively
tune on a banjo, but dropped the instrument when he saw them approach,
and called out a cheery hail.
“Hi, Mr. Rawn! Ain’t seen you sence last year! Come on in and talk
things over—the old woman’ll lay a couple extra dishes for dinner. It
ain’t often we have the honor of company for meals, and we like to make
the most of them!”
Wally accepted the invitation, and after he and Blackie washed the dust
from their faces, they sat on the porch and chatted with the farmer
until the smoking hot meal was served. The leader was impatient to be
off, but the pleasure of the farmer and his wife at having visitors was
so great that it was some time before he could break away. The dinner
was leisurely and abundant, and afterwards nothing would do but they
must chat with the garrulous farmer about every subject he could think
of, from hog cholera to philosophy; and he insisted on playing his
entire stock of old country tunes on his banjo before they finally
parted.
“It’s not far now,” said Wally as they again took the road. “The last
ridge is only about a mile ahead.”
This cheered the plodding Blackie a little, but all the same it seemed
as if that mile was the longest in the world. At last they reached the
summit, and instead of another dreary stretch ahead they were rewarded
with an exhilarating prospect of the lake below and the flat countryside
beyond in the direction of Elmville. As they paused to get their breath,
a bugle call trilled up to them from the lodge.
“Come down and wash your dirty neck——” sang Wally, keeping time to the
trumpet-call. “He’s sounding Swim Call. That means they must be starting
the swimming meet! Hurry, Blackie—it must be at least two o’clock;
everybody will be streaking down to the dock. See that bunch of fellows
over in the baseball field? That must be the gang from Camp Shawnee.”
The two broke into a run which took them past the spring and down to the
signal tower. Here they left the road, which bent at right angles, and
plunged down the hillside through the green woods, following the trail
beside the pipe-line. Inside of twenty minutes they were stumbling into
Tent Four, where they sat on their bunks to catch their breaths.
They found the tent rows deserted; evidently every camper was assembled
down beside the lake. Wally recovered his breath first, and urged by the
necessity of going on duty at the dock, slipped out of his clothes and
into his swimming suit. Blackie, after five minutes’ rest, began to
undress slowly.
“You’re not so crazy for a swim you want to hustle right down now, are
you?” asked Wally in surprise. “You better take a nap, son.”
Blackie shook his head. “I’ve got to get in the meet, Wally! It’s my
last chance—you know I have to leave camp to-morrow; I’m only signed up
for the first two weeks. And you’ve put in a lot of time teaching me the
Australian crawl stroke, and I want to show what I can do in a real
swimming meet. Will you enter me in the distance swims and the high
dive?”
The councilor grinned. “You sure are a glutton for punishment! I
wouldn’t think, after the last couple of days, you’d have steam enough
left for swimming contests! But I admire your gameness, and I’ll sure
put your name down.” He buttoned the strap on his bathing suit, thrust
his feet into a pair of tennis shoes, and dashed off down the path
toward the dock, from the direction of which came a confused babble of
shouting and cheering. The swimming meet was already in full swing.
Blackie went down to the lake only a few minutes later, meeting no one
on his way. The boat dock and the shore were lined with swimmers and
spectators; about a hundred of them were strange boys and leaders,
wearing the red arrowhead of Camp Shawnee, who had hiked down from Iron
Lake to accept Lenape hospitality for the day and contest Lenape
superiority in the water. The life-saving boats were stationed further
out than usual, and Wally Rawn, with a whistle about his neck and papers
and a megaphone in his hands, was stationed on the upper deck of the
tower, directing the events, assisted by the chiefs of the two camps.
The first person Blackie encountered as he stepped on the dock was Ken
Haviland. The aide gave him a stare of contempt.
“Humph!” he snorted. “So you came crawling back to camp just as I knew
you would! Well, you might just as well have stayed away. What’s the
idea of the bathing suit? You needn’t think we want a fellow like you to
represent us against Shawnee.”
“Wally has entered me in the meet,” said Blackie stoutly. “You shouldn’t
kick if he thinks it’s all right.”
“Wally’s running the meet, and what he says goes,” admitted Ken
grudgingly, “but as far as the campers are concerned, you don’t count.”
He turned away, refusing to speak further.
“Third event—underwater swim, junior class!” came Wally’s voice through
the megaphone. The six contestants, three from each camp, lined up at
the end of the dock and when the whistle sounded took off with flat
racing dives. The spectators cheered as the boys hit the water; and the
wearers of the arrowhead gave a happy yell as their contenders took
first and third places. Steffins of Lenape ran a close second with a
fast breast-stroke.
“What’s the score now?” Blackie asked the boy next to him. It was Slim
Yerkes, and he favored Blackie with a stare.
“I’d keep quiet if I were you,” he said. “Don’t forget you’re still on
the blacklist around here.” He moved off, and Blackie sat down weakly on
a rock on shore. He had hoped that by this time the edict of the
Kangaroo Court had been forgotten and that he could once more speak
freely with his comrades; but since his return not one of them had
spoken to him in friendship or asked about his adventures.
He did not try to talk with anyone again, but sat where he was and
watched the progress of the swimming meet with dull eyes. The Shawnee
team was a good one; a red-headed, slightly-built lad named Lawrence
took honors in the junior class in diving, winning several first places
in the form and fancy events, and a husky kid whom his Shawnee
camp-mates called “Hobo” starred in the sprints. They both helped to
give Lenape the worst of it, and at the end of the junior contest the
score was Shawnee, 37; Lenape, 23.
Blackie caught sight of Irish Gallegher among the groups on shore, but
did not want to speak to him. The senior diving events were now called,
and Blackie answered to his name among those competing in high-diving.
There were about seven contestants entered from each camp, and every
entrant was entitled to three dives. They assembled on the upper dock
platform, where a runway and springboard jutted out over the end of the
piers. In this event Lenape, thanks to Wally’s careful training, was in
its glory and took all three places. Steve Link, who was a member of the
life-saving crew, took first; Blackie, in spite of his weariness, won
second; and Terry Tompkins came third. Blackie had conquered his tired
muscles and performed a very creditable back jack-knife dive, but not
one of his team-mates shook his hand or dropped him a “Well done!”
Disgruntled, he retired to his place on the rock and watched the Lenape
team slowly shorten the difference in score as the senior events
progressed.
The “funny dive” came last of all, and was won by Fat Crampton, the
pudgy lion-hunter. He had been entered at the last moment by the
joke-loving Sax McNulty, and his victory came as a surprise to
everybody, but most of all to Fat himself. He had timidly approached the
board, for he was not used to diving in any form; and while he stood at
the end debating with himself what to do, his foot slipped and he
toppled heels over head into the water. His arms became entangled in his
legs as he fell, and he came up with such a pop-eyed, startled look on
his puffy face that the judges immediately awarded him the blue ribbon,
although he had to be pulled out by a delegation of volunteer
life-savers.
The diving events in the senior class were finished, and the score stood
somewhat closer, with Lenape standing 42 against Shawnee’s 48. Wally
summoned the contestants in the fifty-yard dash, in which Blackie had
not entered, wishing to save all his power for the more demanding
distance events. A rangy, sandy-haired youth with the emblem of the
Junior Red Cross on his jersey stepped forward and was hailed by a
volley of cheers from the wearers of the red. “Dunning! Show ’em how to
do it, Dunning!” He was evidently their champion, and he had a confident
smile on his face which might betoken bad news for the Lenape
supporters.
As a matter of fact, Dunning did win the fifty-yard with ease, although
his triumph was offset by Link and Gil Shelton, who took second and
third places for the Lenape side of the score. The representatives of
the green and white also took first and second in the underwater swim,
making the tally read Shawnee, 52; Lenape, 50, with only three more
events yet to be contested.
“Hundred-yard swim!” came Wally’s voice hoarsely through the megaphone.
“Shawnee team—Dunning, Coombes, Lipsky; Lenape team—Haviland, Link,
Thorne!”
Blackie rose and walked stiffly to the end of the dock; he was more
tired than he had thought, for no boy can hike with a heavy pack through
mountain roads for seven hours and still hope to be fresh and springy in
a gruelling distance swim the same afternoon. He lined up with the six
contenders, between the confident Dunning and Ken Haviland. The latter
twisted his mouth when he saw Blackie beside him.
“Still trying, huh? Well, let me tell you, Thorne, I’d rather lose the
meet than have a fellow like you help to win it—and every fellow in
Lenape thinks the same!”
Blackie said nothing, but a red tide of resentment climbed to his brain.
So that was what they thought of him! But at least they couldn’t say he
was a quitter; he would do his best in spite of what any of them said!
He clamped his jaw, and stared out over the sparkling waters of the
lake, over the course that had been marked out by two of the life-boats,
trying to recall everything that Wally had taught him about the
crawl-stroke—trudgeon kick, powerful overhand pull with the arms,
measured breathing once in four strokes.
“Ready—set——”
The shrill purl of the starter’s whistle sounded, and six lithe bodies
cleaved the water. Blackie, full of anger and determination, put every
ounce of his waning strength into his strokes, fighting to keep his head
and time his muscles scientifically. He did not dare look around to see
how the other contestants were coming, although he was aware of a sandy
head driving through the water a little to his left and half a length
ahead. The course seemed short, but a stiff hundred-yard swim will try
the power of even a swimmer in the best of training. He headed for the
line stretched between the two boats, his arms moving over his head in a
steady rhythm that kept time with the beat of his legs, his face buried
in cool bubbling water. He’d show them! Summoning up his last straining
ounce of power, he spurted to win ahead of the swimmer to his left, and
passed him just as the shadow of the life-saving boat fell upon their
faces.
“Thorne wins!” came the voice of one of the judges from the boat.
“Dunning second, Coombes third!”
There was an uneasy silence among the Lenape supporters, but after half
a minute there rose a belated cheer from the wearers of the red
arrowhead, who were disappointed that their favorite had not won, but
who consoled themselves with the thought that Shawnee was still in the
lead.
Blackie took his time paddling back to the dock. He did not expect
congratulations for his victory; but he was now beyond the stage of
caring. All he had wanted to do was to show Ken Haviland that he was
game; and the taunts of the aide had given Blackie just that extra ounce
of vitality that had enabled him to spurt ahead of Dunning. He climbed
unassisted to the dock, and stood watching the next event, breathing
deeply to get his wind in preparation for the concluding event of the
meet, the two-hundred-yard swim that was the most demanding of all
contests upon the grit and capabilities of the racer.
Some thirty boys were lined up for the next contest, a free-for-all
marathon over a triangular course that led around two boats stationed
some yards apart in front of the dock; and at the summons of the whistle
there ensued a scrambling battle-royal for places in the water. Most of
the bunch dropped out before the first boat was reached, but among the
remaining swimmers there was a desperate contest to see who would touch
the wharf first. The Lenape cohorts broke into mad cheers when they
found that their entrants in this helter-skelter marathon had placed
first and third, and the yells of all the spectators grew and swelled
out over the water when it was found that the tallies for the last two
events had brought the score to a dead tie, with 57 points for each
camp.
The excitement was at fever heat as the contenders lined up for the
final event of the afternoon’s sport, the two-hundred-yard swim. The
entries were almost the same as for the shorter distance, except that
Link had been replaced by Soapy Mullins. Dunning, somewhat crestfallen,
eyed Blackie with a vengeful air, as if resolved to wipe out the memory
of his previous defeat. Coombes, who had placed third in the
hundred-yard event, looked pale and tired. Blackie stole a look at Ken
Haviland, who was again ranged at his side, but the aide paid no
attention. Blackie saw him feeling the right side of his abdomen
tenderly, and thought he caught Ken making a slight grimace of pain; but
the signal for ready came at that moment, and Ken straightened his body
and gritted his teeth as the starter put his whistle to his lips.
Brr-r-r-r! The six racers took the water and the gruelling contest
began, with two hundred pairs of eyes fastened upon their shining
muscles, sleek heads, and straining bodies. The last race—the race upon
which depended the camp championship of the season, the victory of the
green and white or the red arrowhead! No wonder the air was filled with
cheers and shouts of encouragement! Once or twice Blackie caught the
sound of his own name rising from that bedlam of excited watchers. He
smiled to himself, filled with a great elation. He had whipped Dunning
before, and knew he could do it again. Turning his head with a jerk, he
saw that Coombes was already out of the race, had dropped behind, too
exhausted to continue. Beside Blackie, the speedy Dunning whipped
through the water, followed by Ken Haviland and Soapy Mullins and
closely pursued by Lipsky. It was to be a close race, in spite of the
distance.
Onward Blackie Thorne churned his way, tossing diamond-like drops from
his hair as he surged through the water. Ahead he could see the dipping
life-boats that marked the end of the journey. Tie score—if he nosed
Dunning out for first place, it was almost a sure thing that one of the
other Lenape contenders would finish ahead of the slow-going Lipsky, and
end the meet with a slender lead of two points that would, however, give
Lenape the day.
Ken Haviland was shooting ahead, and was now close on the flailing legs
of Dunning. Blackie, with his eyes on the goal, was slowly but surely
increasing his half-length lead over the Shawnee favorite, when he heard
a low cry that made him turn his head and halt his even stroke.
Ken was in trouble. His pallid face was twisting with pain, and his arms
floated helplessly at his side. “Blackie!” he gasped. “Cramps! I’m
done——”
Dunning forged ahead, either not hearing of Haviland’s plight or else,
still smarting from his defeat, determined that nothing should interfere
to lose him this last and decisive race. Blackie held his stroke, and
Dunning caught up with him in an instant.
For only a split second did Blackie hesitate. Two voices seemed to be
shouting in his ears at the same time, arguing against each other.
“Ken is out of it, but there’s still a good chance that Mullins will
beat Lipsky for third. Go ahead and win!” counselled the first.
“But Ken has cramps—he’ll drown if you don’t help him!” contended the
other voice.
“He hates you—don’t throw away your big chance to win just on his
account! He said himself he’d rather lose the meet than have you win!”
“No, he’s sick! He needs you!”
A clock was ticking somewhere in his brain, ticking off the fractions of
seconds in which he must make up his mind what to do. Already Dunning
was beyond him, plowing determinedly for the goal. Blackie made his
decision. In a few speedy strokes he was by Ken’s side.
“I’ll hold you up—don’t struggle!” he shouted in the aide’s ear, and put
forth a supporting arm. Ken’s face was blanched and torn with pain, and
he floundered about helplessly, the muscles of his limbs knotted in
paralyzing lumps, his abdomen gripped with shooting pangs. Blackie knew
that he must be very sick indeed.
Soapy Mullins passed them some yards to their right, followed by Lipsky
trailing unsteadily in his wake.
“Take it easy!” said Blackie. “Don’t get scared! It’ll pass off soon.”
Of a sudden Ken’s muscles relaxed, and he found he could move his arms
and support himself somewhat. “What happened?” he gasped. “Did they stop
the race?”
A voice through a megaphone from the boats answered his question.
“Dunning wins! Mullins, second; Lipsky, third. Shawnee wins the
meet—score, 61 to 59!”
From the shore came the wild hurrahs of the victors, and a sportsmanlike
cheer from the Lenape campers for those who had vanquished them. In the
excitement of the race, few of the watchers had noticed that Blackie had
gone to the aid of Ken, and most of them had assumed that the two had
merely dropped out, overcome by the cruel demands of the contest.
Ken’s face was a blank. “But—but that’s not fair! We ought to run the
race over again—you would have won easy if you hadn’t come to help me,
Blackie!”
Blackie shook his head. “The meet’s over. No use kicking up a fuss and
having the Shawnee bunch think we’re a gang of poor sports who start
crabbing when they lose. It’s our hard luck, and we might as well take
our medicine. If you feel better now, come on and I’ll tow you over to
the boat.”