NIP AND TUCK.
With the beginning of the third-class year Jack entered upon the
second half of his life at Utopia. One day early in the new term he
dropped into the more spacious study to which Carlisle, in his capacity
of assistant in Latin, had been promoted, and falling into a chair
exclaimed, “I say, Louis, I would like something to read.”
“To read, my dear fellow? With all my heart. What shall it be?”
“That’s what I’ve come to you to tell me. I’ve never read anything and
I want to begin.”
As you have doubtless noticed, Carlisle had hitherto in his intercourse
with Jack kept in the background his most cherished tastes, and
rarely, if ever, made allusion to books or other kindred interests,
feeling sure that he would not find a sympathetic listener. But from
this time forward the scope of their friendship was greatly widened.
It was a simple matter for the older boy to gratify the desire of
his interrogator, and before many weeks had passed by Jack had become
an eager devourer of literature, held in check from proceeding too
rapidly, however, by the injunction to digest thoroughly what he read.
“I only wish I had had somebody to impress the importance of that
upon me when I started,” Carlisle remarked to him early in their new
intercourse. “I read everything I could lay my hands on as fast as I
could see the words. Consequently I forgot half what I read.”
“Were all these books given to you?” asked Jack, indicating the modest
little library of which his friend was the happy possessor.
“No, indeed. I purchased most of them with what I have saved from my
spending money. Long before I was your age I used to save up every cent
I got to spend in books. I shall never forget my delight when I was
able to buy the copy of ‘The Lady of the Lake,’ above your head there.”
Jack had never read “The Lady of the Lake.” Indeed, he had never
read any poetry in his life, and what is more, had in his ignorance
cherished the belief that poetry was silly stuff, fit only for girls
and milksops, and quite beneath the notice of a masculine individual
like himself. This belief he was obliged to confess ill-founded after
finishing the thrilling encounter between Snowdon’s knight and the
formidable Roderick Dhu. In fact, so great was his delight with both
this poem and “Marmion,” which Carlisle introduced him to immediately
after, that he saw fit to learn passages from each of them by heart,
much to the bewilderment and ill-concealed disdain of Haseltine, in
whose presence he was disposed to rehearse them.
“‘Come one, come all, this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I,’”
he began one morning while they were dressing, assuming a martial
attitude before the bath-room door, and armed with a base-ball bat.
“Oh, come off,” said Haseltine contemptuously. “Quit that stuff!”
“It isn’t stuff,” expostulated Jack. “You ought to read it; it’s
immense.”
“What is?”
“‘The Lady of the Lake,’ by Scott. There’s ‘Marmion,’ too.”
“‘Charge, Chester, charge! on, Stanley, on!
Were the last words of Marmion,’”
he added, waving the bat.
“Anything about base-ball in it?”
“Of course not, Hasy. It’s poetry.”
“I don’t see what difference that makes. Any way, I guess prose is good
enough for me.”
“Will you read ‘The Lady of the Lake’ if I lend it to you?” asked Jack.
He was genuinely eager to share the pleasure of his new discovery.
Haseltine did not commit himself on the point, but Jack left the volume
in his crony’s room, and experienced the satisfaction a few days later
of hearing him ask, carelessly,――
“What did you say the name of the other book was?”
“‘Marmion.’”
“I guess I’ll look it over now that my hand’s in.”
This was scarcely enthusiasm, to judge by the mere words; but Jack
knew well that Haseltine must have been greatly interested in order to
have said even so much, an estimate which was confirmed a fortnight
later, when the base-ball devotee accepted an invitation to read two
hours in every week with him and Carlisle. This arrangement, which
lasted through the year, soon became a source of extreme delight to
both the boys, who listened with open ears to the various pieces of
verse which their mentor selected for their edification. Carlisle took
pains to explain that he was himself a mere student and beginner, and
to encourage diversity of opinion, and consequent discussion, in regard
to the merits of what was read. It must have been interesting to him to
note the gradual change which took place in the tastes of his auditors,
though be it said that Haseltine, to the last, refused to admit any
passage in the realm of verse to be superior to that which described
the once sneered-at duel between the Scottish king and the Highland
rebel. Both their hearts, and more particularly Jack’s, were opened,
however, to the beauties of more thoughtful poetry, which, and also
the feelings and aspirations begotten by it, became new and working
influences in their lives.
I am quite aware that this side of Jack’s career cannot be made to
appear so attractive to you boys by means of description as some of
the more picturesque matters in which he was engaged; but if he were
called upon to-day to state what period in his school life he looks
back upon with the greatest satisfaction since going out into the busy
world, I know that he would specify that during which he acquired his
love of reading and interest in refined thought. You remember that,
though, when he went home encouraged by Dr. Meredith’s kind words at
the end of his fourth-class year, he was certainly entitled to great
credit for having made so determined a fight against his inveterate
habit of idleness, he was at the time little more than a rough,
harum-scarum sort of a boy,――a plucky one, I admit, with plenty of good
stuff in him,――but nevertheless comparatively thoughtless, and confined
in his interests to the ball field and boat-house. Before another year
had passed, while he was once more in excellent spirits, there was
something about his expression which caused the other boys to speak of
him as older-looking. But Carlisle and the ever-observant head of the
school recognized with pleasure that his graver countenance and less
flighty manner were significant of more than seniority.
Our hero’s prowess in the way of sport was chiefly marked this year by
his selection as one of the Atalantas, in whose boat he was given the
position of number four, and had the satisfaction of doing his best to
make the crew formidable opponents of the still victorious Mohicans.
The Atalantas had fallen to the rank of third on the lake in the last
race in which the four eight-oared crews had met; but this infusion of
new blood――there were two other additions beside Jack――enabled them to
come in second in the spring contest, and not a very bad second either.
So fresh were they in fact at the finish, that Tom Bonsall had to call
on his crew for an extra spurt when he supposed the race already won.
Jack managed also, before another twelvemonth had passed, to throw
Carpenter flat on his back and pin his shoulders to the ground in the
middle-weight spring wrestling, in retaliation for that athlete’s
victory over him when they were both classed as feather weights. He
wisely recognized his limitations on the running track, however,
which a gain of ten pounds in weight had intensified, by not trying
to compete with Jessup, who was still easily first as a sprinter. If
Hopedale, who, you will recall, had beaten him twice in previous years,
had been still at Utopia, Jack might have found it difficult to resist
the temptation of making another struggle for supremacy; but his old
antagonist was no longer at the school. It was a wise decision on his
part, for the champion succeeded in lowering Carlisle’s famous record
amid tumultuous applause.
Jack’s general reputation at this time was as a good all-round man;
a reputation which he was urged to maintain by the intelligent
superintendent of the gymnasium, Dr. Bolles, between whom and Jack
there was mutual cordiality of feeling. Dr. Bolles, as you will
remember, had been pleased by Jack’s compact physique from the first
day he laid eyes on him, and had ever since lost no occasion to drop
valuable hints as to how it might be improved and taken care of. Jack
had long ago learned from this source the weak points in his make-up,
and was well versed in his instructor’s theory, that it was foolish for
boys to cultivate chiefly those parts of the body which were especially
well developed. In the opinion of Dr. Bolles, athletics were intended
as a means for improving the health and structure of the young, not
as an end to the pursuit of which they should devote their entire
energies; and he was emphatic in his cautions to Jack not to be led
astray in this respect.
“Remember,” he would say, “that however important it may seem to you
to win this or the other match, the real object of exercise is to fit
you for the serious work that you will be called upon to do as a man.
The moment you sacrifice everything to sport, you are to all intents
and purposes a professional, which is the last thing you were sent to
school to become.”
Although this view of athletics was novel to Jack, he was forced to
admit to himself that it was in keeping with the other ideas regarding
human duty and obligation which had suddenly been revealed to him as a
consequence of his more sober life and the masterpieces of intelligent
thought with which his mind was being brought in daily contact. He
was able now to understand Carlisle’s previous determination not to
dissipate his energies in too many directions, and to pursue his
training at the oar with the aim first of all of keeping in good
condition so as to be able to fulfill his school work satisfactorily.
Study did not come easy yet to Jack. Far from it, in fact. It takes a
long time to recover lost ground and cover new at the same time. Often
indeed he felt pretty well discouraged and inclined to believe that
he should never do anything at his books. Though by no means dull, he
possessed little more than average brightness, which made the contrast
which he could not help forming at times between himself and his mentor
stand out with painful distinctness. Carlisle was so quick-minded, and
acquired everything that he undertook to learn so easily, that Jack
could not help expressing openly his despair of ever coming within
understanding distance even of his friend.
“Nonsense!” Carlisle would reply on such occasions; “you were a little
late in beginning, that’s all. Persevere, youngster, and you’ll come
out all right in the end.”
There was good advice in this, for though Jack would never be likely
through lack of natural abilities and taste to equal his senior in
intellectual acumen, there was no reason why he should not become
an excellent scholar and graduate with distinction by means of that
very valuable quality――which is too apt to be depreciated as a
gift――known as perseverance. Some boys will always be by disposition
quicker witted and more brilliant than their fellows, but it does
not follow by any means that the prizes of after-life fall to these
“Admirable Crichtons.” Stubborn, bull-dog, up-hill climbing and
untiring determination to succeed will many a time win place and honor
when easy-going talent goes to the wall. Don’t let any one persuade
you, boys, that you can equal all at once some companion who learns
his lessons twice as easily as you do. God gives unequal gifts to
his children, and if the one you have in mind is as resolute as you,
no amount of industry will enable you to catch him. But, though your
abilities may appear commonplace to begin with, you have no idea how
many of those exasperatingly clever fellows you will leave safely in
the rear before the race of life is over, if only you make the most of
yourself by persevering unflaggingly from start to finish.
One day not long before the summer vacation Carlisle came into his
study, where Jack who had the run of it happened to be pegging away
at some lesson, and dropping into the window-seat began to look over
the just issued copy of “The Utopian,” the school paper, of which he
had been an editor until he graduated, and to which he was still an
occasional contributor.
“The Utopian” was conducted by a board of six taken from the three
upper classes, who solicited articles and poems from the entire
school, and was a breezy neat-looking little publication containing,
beside local items of interest and detailed accounts of the triumphs
and reverses of the nine, the fifteen, and the other athletic
organizations, numerous imaginative pieces in prose and verse. Carlisle
had for several years been one of its strongest supporters, and both in
the capacity of “funny man” and poet had done much to keep its columns
readable. Consequently he was familiar with the pseudonym and style of
the usual contributors.
After reading out one or two stray bits of humor which he came across
and over which he chuckled contentedly, and dubbing as “dishwater” a
poem involving a love affair which doubtless he judged appertained
rather to the mind’s eye than to the experience of the narrator, he was
silent a moment. Then he said:
“I wonder who ‘Juvenis’ is.”
“Juvenis?” asked Jack, with apparent nonchalance, glancing at him
furtively.
“Yes; there’s a fellow signs himself ‘Juvenis’ to some lines on the
Ocean. It isn’t a very original subject, but whoever he is, he has seen
the ocean any way and knows what it looks like. It isn’t bad at all,”
he added.
[Illustration]
If the ex-editor had chanced to regard his companion’s face at the
moment he must have obtained an instant clue as to the identity of the
unknown rhymester. Jack was tickled to death, so to speak, for this was
the first information he had received of the acceptance of his poem
which he had inclosed and addressed to the editors of the Utopian a
fortnight before in the secrecy of his own room, and with very little
hope of its escape from the wastepaper basket. To have in addition to
the consciousness of knowing that it was actually in print, Carlisle
of all men vouchsafe a word of praise in its behalf seemed to him like
piling Pelion on Ossa. At least he felt as much up in the world as he
could possibly have felt if standing on a pinnacle composed of those
two mountains.
While he was deliberating whether or not to reveal his authorship,
Carlisle renewed the conversation by asking to Jack’s infinite
amusement:
“Why shouldn’t you try your hand at something of the sort, youngster?
If poetry isn’t in your line, write prose.”
“What’s the use?” responded our hero, with a well simulated attempt at
indifference.
“What’s the use of anything? In the first place, composition teaches
you to systematize your thoughts and to express yourself with
clearness. I believe, too, in cultivating the imagination. Of course
every fellow who writes verse isn’t a poet and is apt to be a fool if
he thinks himself one, but his mind gets pleasure and profit out of
the exercise. Take these lines I just spoke to you about,” continued
Carlisle, “they’re not much as poetry of course.”
“Oh, no,” interjected Jack, a little dolefully, off his guard.
“But the author must have derived a great deal of satisfaction from
writing them, and can evidently do much better work with practice. If
you ask ‘what’s the use,’ I can’t express it to you in dollars and
cents, but I’m mighty certain that everything of that sort is good for
one, and helps one to understand life better.”
Jack began to laugh merrily. “That’s the best rise I’ve seen for a long
time,” he said.
“I fail to see the rise.”
“You will, though, when I tell you that I am the author of the Lines on
the Ocean.”
“You, Jack! Well, that’s a good one on me, I admit. You might have let
me into the secret, I think,” added Carlisle reproachfully.
“You see it was not a very original subject”――
“None of that, now. You may thank your stars, youngster, that I
didn’t pitch into your verses. I might have stabbed you to the heart
unwittingly.”
“In which case their authorship would have died with me. I knew you’d
feel obliged to tell me exactly what you thought of them if I showed
them to you, so I kept mum.”
“Well, you’ve heard my opinion of them, and I don’t know that I
have anything to add except that for a first attempt they’re highly
creditable,” said Carlisle.
Jack was excessively proud of his new accomplishment, and lost no time
in showing the verses to Haseltine, who, after reading them to the end,
observed laconically,――
“They’re not up to ‘The Lady of the Lake.’”
Beyond this general criticism Haseltine did not choose to commit
himself, but being nowadays less disposed than formerly to sniff
at matters unconnected with base-ball, he also abstained from any
observations in depreciation of poetry writing. But though, as we
have seen, not wholly unamenable to culture, Hasy was true, heart
and soul, to his first love. No arguments had yet been able to shake
his unswerving allegiance to base-ball, and, as a consequence, his
daily increasing proficiency at that game was giving him an enviable
reputation on the diamond, so much so, that it was universally conceded
that he would succeed the “Kid” as captain of the school nine at the
beginning of the coming year. His fielding was really remarkable for
so young a fellow. He seemed to be in a dozen places at the same
moment, and the batsman who dared to let anything drive within a wide
radius of third base was sure to be discomfited. His base running was a
marvel to behold, and his batting record by no means inferior. His most
recent ambition was to pitch, and his twisters had already brought him
into repute on the several occasions when he had been called into the
box to relieve the “Kid.” In his studies he managed to tag along just
above the bottom of the class. A certain brightness, a clever knack
of guessing correctly, it might be called, saved him from absolute
disaster, and made him popular with his masters despite themselves.
With the opening of their second-class year both Jack and he found
themselves among the leaders of the school. Its cock was now undeniably
Tom Bonsall, who, in addition to being a member of the first class,
stroke oar of the Mohicans, and champion sculler of Utopia, was justly
entitled to be styled a rattling good fellow. Tom had, however, the
air of feeling his oats, as the saying is, in spite of the lesson in
humility which Carlisle had taught him, and, if he had a fault, was
open to criticism on the score of vanity. What Tom Bonsall could not
do was not worth doing, school opinion generally held, which was a
sentiment full of danger to his career unless he chanced to possess an
uncommonly level head.
Both Tom and Jack had filled out amazingly during this last twelvemonth.
Tom was still the heavier of the two, and was a year older to boot; but
his rival looked beefy enough and sinewy enough not to excite invidious
comparisons. Indeed, if one had looked them in turn squarely in the
face, I think he would, if a shrewd judge, have been struck by how clear
Jack’s eyes were and how fresh and free from pallor or staleness his
complexion was, slightly to the prejudice of Tom, who, to tell the
truth, had got a little into the habit of smoking cigarettes and being
careless about his condition. It is pretty hard for a fellow as popular
as Tom not to have to suit everybody more or less in order not to lose
ground, and as Bill French and two or three others of the same stamp had
a certain amount of influence in the school, he thought it good policy
to keep on the right side of them, though disapproving of their general
ways. This is a dangerous sort of game to play, and finer fellows at the
start even than Tom Bonsall have learned it to their cost.
But little reference of late has been made to the wily Bill, for
the reason that after the tool-house episode his intimacy with Jack
perceptibly waned. But though he has not figured in these pages, it
must not be supposed that he had ceased to be a potent influence at
Utopia, or, alas! that he had changed in character. Bill’s lie set an
effectual seal on any budding virtues that may have been dormant in his
soul and crushed them hopelessly, it is to be feared. Bill was not a
villain, in the approved sense of the word. Quite otherwise, in fact.
He had plenty of good points in that he was clever, entertaining, and,
on the whole, amiable; but the trouble with him, as you have, I hope,
appreciated, was that he was a coward. His tastes and impulses led him
to avoid all that was open and above board, and to prefer just the
opposite. You remember how he displayed these traits earlier in his
career, and you will readily understand that now, instead of following
any of the pursuits which the manly boys at the school took delight
in, he found his chief gratification in posing as a flawless dandy,
by which word “flawless” I do not refer to his moral attributes but
to his personal appearance. Bill and his set――for he had a number of
more or less ardent disciples in this proclivity――aped with wonderful
precision so far as they dared, and much further in secret than the
laws allowed, the manners of weary men about town who think they know
everything about life, and are tired of what they know. Even in the
days of the Big Four this had been somewhat Bill’s drift, but he had
developed it latterly to perfection.
I bring him before you again that you may take one last glimpse of him
and his ways, and form your own opinion regarding them both before he
vanishes from our sight forever. I wish with all my heart that I were
able truthfully to state that he came to grief before he left Utopia.
To inform you that he was sent away on account of his evil example
would be much more satisfactory from the point of view of romance and
retributive justice, than to write as I am forced to do, that, although
he was suspected and disapproved of by the masters, he managed to
keep his ill doings so dark that he was never actually found out up
to that time. But we must take facts as they are, not as we would
like to have them. I do not wish to give you the idea that Bill was
hopeless,――though I regret to add that since he graduated from Utopia
he has done little to encourage one to believe that he will ever be a
useful member of society,――but it must be borne in mind in estimating
character that the stereotyped villain such as was referred to just
now is a rare exception except in city slums, and that the sort of
person most dangerous to the welfare of our community as it exists at
present is not the cut-throat or burglar whom the policeman knows very
well how to deal with, but the sneering advocate of licentiousness
and self-indulgence and low standards of honor. Boys like Bill do not
become thoroughly bad all at once. They deteriorate gradually. One
thing leads to another, and though if no redeeming influence is brought
to bear upon them in time their degeneration is wofully certain, there
is often little about them to attract the unfavorable attention of
those who do not know them well. Sometimes they are never found out
at all by the world at large; but you may be pretty sure that, as the
years roll by, if they do not reveal themselves by their unworthy
deeds or the expression of their faces, their hearts are sad and sore.
Life has lost for them its savor even in an evil sense, and everything
seems to them as the poet says, “weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.”
But to be anxious that vice should be its own punishment, much less
that wrong-doers should have strict justice meted out to them, is
concern unworthy for thorough-going characters to entertain. Let the
bad boys go their ways, and do not trouble your heads with wondering
when and how they will be made to suffer for their unrighteousness.
You will have plenty to do to guide your own footsteps and to steer
clear of the pitfalls which have engulfed many a lad secure in the
consciousness of his own power to resist temptation. For my part I pity
Bill French and hope sincerely that he may yet turn out a decent fellow.
Meanwhile, with Carlisle away at college, where he had entered with
flying colors, the new year saw Jack thrown on his own resources,
which, though a doleful experience at first on account of his
separation from his dear friend, was perhaps just what he needed to
give force to his character. He had become one of the older boys of
the school, and instead of looking up to others was in a position
to be looked up to himself by the lads in the lower classes, the
consciousness of which was not slow to breed in him a sense of
responsibility as to keeping an eye on youngsters who, like himself
not so very long ago, were in need of a helping hand. He was now also
one of the six editors of “The Utopian,” an honor conferred upon
him in virtue of several articles both in prose and verse which had
emanated from his pen as a result of the favorable reception accorded
to his Lines on the Ocean. His pseudonym “Juvenis” was well known
in school circles, and his energy in securing both contributors and
subscribers never faltered. He was the means of introducing a number
of new features into the paper, most popular among which was a series
of florid, but racy and pertinent observations on the national game
appearing in every issue signed enigmatically “Third Base,” which was
merely an ostrich-like concealment of the identity of the captain of
the school nine. Haseltine had regarded the proposition to become
literary to this extent with favor from the very outset, and from
the very outset also his lucubrations were so immensely popular that
extracts from them found their way into the columns of the real press
of the county, much to the satisfaction of their author.
But deeply in earnest as Jack had grown to be in his efforts to do
his duty and to please his mother, which two ends not unnaturally
were synonymous in his mind, and faithfully as he stuck to his school
work during his year in the second class, he was looking forward
with anxious but keen and determined anticipation to the day when he
should have the opportunity to row man for man against his rival, to
decide once for all which was the better oarsman of the two. It had
become a matter of school knowledge and discussion that these two
crack scullers――for they were now both recognized as such――were to
settle this question at the spring races, and great was the difference
of opinion as to the result. Each had his enthusiastic backers who
believed in their champion’s ability to leave his opponent far in the
rear, and but little else was talked about out of school hours but the
respective merits of Tom Bonsall and Jack Hall.
As Tom was to graduate this year, this was Jack’s last chance to prove
himself his superior. Consequently neither of them allowed the other to
outdo him in practice, and though apparently they both avoided testing
each other’s mettle in advance, their respective shells were visible
at opposite ends of the lake at least once a day during the spring
preceding the race.
Great preparations were made for the contest, and in order that the
scullers might be perfectly fresh, the eight-oared race was fixed for
the day after. But great as was the excitement, it was nothing compared
with what it became when, a week before the important event, Dr.
Meredith announced his intention of competing for the prize himself.
The report ran like wildfire through the school. “Have you heard the
news?” every one asked his neighbor. “The Doctor is going in for the
single sculls against Bonsall and Hall. He hasn’t rowed in a race, you
know, since Whiteside crawled up on him so.”
Whiteside’s struggle was, of course, merely a tradition to five sixths
of the boys, but it was one which had been handed down from class to
class as an event yet without parallel in the annals of Utopia. The
very fact that the Doctor had never entered a race since then had
been tacitly accepted as proof that there were no longer competitors
among his pupils sufficiently formidable to render a victory on his
part otherwise than easy, and it is needless to state that the present
announcement was regarded as a profound compliment to the condition of
aquatics at the school. As to what the result of the race would be, few
saw room to doubt. The Doctor was always in condition; the Doctor was
always in practice; the Doctor was sure to win.
The opinion of the many was shared also by his two competitors, who
discussed the matter from every standpoint. Neither of them could hope
to beat the Doctor, but they were resolved that he should not carry off
the prize without pulling for all he was worth from start to finish. So
Tom and Jack vowed on the evening before the race as they stood side
by side on the boat-house flat, watching their adversary shoot over
the water in a final practice spin. If gritted teeth and determination
could be of avail, the head of the school had no sinecure in the task
which he had taken on himself.
The appointed day dawned bright and still. Jack, who had lain awake
during the early hours of the night through excitement, was awakened
from a deep, refreshing sleep by a well-known knock, which caused him
to leap out of bed and open the door.
“Louis, where on earth did you spring from?”
“Jack, how _are_ you?”
The two boys stood shaking hands and laughing delightedly for some
moments before Carlisle――it was he of course――saw fit to explain in
answer to his friend’s question that he had run up from college on
purpose to see the race. There was a leeway of three days, he said,
between two of his examinations, and he had managed to get away.
“It was awfully good of you, Louis.”
“Nonsense, youngster! I had promised to come if I could, you know, and
I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Have you heard whom I am to row against?” asked Jack feverishly.
Carlisle nodded. He had been told everything by Horace Hosmer driving
up from the station, it appeared, and been waylaid moreover by half the
school, eager to know his opinion as to the result, and to give theirs.
“Have I any show, Louis, do you think?”
“You ought to know better than I, Jack. I haven’t seen you row for a
year.”
“I can’t bear the idea of coming in third. Somehow I feel as if I
should have a better show if the Doctor were out of it.”
“Too late to talk that way now,” said Carlisle. “You must brace.”
“Oh, I’m braced, never fear. It’s merely like talking to another self
to talk to you.”
The race had been fixed for ten o’clock. The lake was reported to be
like a mirror, and the day unexceptionable from an oarsman’s point
of view. Jack ate a fairly substantial breakfast at eight, and at
Carlisle’s suggestion remained quietly until nine in his own room,
from which he emerged in an overcoat worn over his boating costume, a
crimson and black striped jersey and crimson handkerchief,――the uniform
of the Atalantas,――and a nondescript pair of trowsers. Haseltine was
waiting before the door with a trap, borrowed from one of the farmers,
so as to spare his champion the unnecessary fatigue of a walk, in which
the three bestowed themselves. Hasy announced that the Doctor and Tom
Bonsall had already gone down to the boat-house.
The quadrangle, as they jogged through it, looked completely deserted,
and not a head was to be seen in any of the dormitory windows, a
condition of affairs which was fully accounted for by the appearance
of the lake and its borders when they arrived. Every boy who possessed
a boat was out in it, and the water was dotted with every variety of
craft from a Rob Roy canoe to the steam launch recently presented to
the school by a fond graduate, which was occupied by Mrs. Meredith,
the judges, and some of the principal guests whom Founders’ Day――as
the annual exhibition was called――had brought to Utopia. The launch
flew proudly the school colors, blue and white, which properly were
worn to-day only by the Doctor, who was just stepping from the float
into his shell amid great applause as Jack alighted from the vehicle.
The stand, which had been erected a few rods from the boat-house, and
which was just opposite to the finish, was crowded with visitors, many
of whom were ladies in gay attire, and the members of the school, while
the country people from miles around were ranged along the shore. It
was a scene calculated to quicken the pulses of any one with a spark
of enthusiasm. As for Jack, when he started to strip off his overcoat
he was trembling all over, and could feel his heart going like a
trip-hammer.
The course was to be two miles in all; straight away for a mile to
a flagged buoy, and back again to another flagged buoy abreast of
the boat-house. Two of the first class were to be judges, a third to
be judge at the further buoy, and Mr. Percy had consented to act as
referee in case of any dispute. Stoddard of the second class, and
stroke oar of the Nimrods, was to send the contestants off by firing a
pistol at the proper moment.
Jack was the last of the three to get into his boat.
“Is everything all right?” whispered Carlisle, who was bending over
him holding the shell at the float. “Don’t spurt until you have to,
remember.”
“O K,” answered our hero.
“Let her go, Smith,” said Haseltine jocularly. “Keep your courage up,
old man,” he added to Jack.
Carlisle shoved the shell out, retaining his grasp on the oar nearest
him until there was clear water. Jack paddled a few rods and then shot
off at a comfortable pace up the lake, followed by the wistful gaze of
the spectators eager to gauge his powers. He caught a glimpse of Tom
Bonsall, in a white shirt with a purple star on its bosom, and a purple
handkerchief bound stylishly across his forehead, resting on his oars
and watching him. Jack had no idea of wasting his energies by showing
off. He had time just to warm himself up a bit before the signal to
get into line. He pulled steadily and quietly for a few hundred yards,
taking a last glance at his equipment to make sure that everything was
all right.
He had scarcely turned to come back when the pistol sounded, and by the
time he reached the starting line the Doctor and Tom were in position.
According to the lots drawn that morning Jack was to be in the middle,
with Tom inside; so he paddled in between them. Stoddard spent a few
moments in making first one and then another retire or move forward a
few inches, then asked sharply,――
“Are you ready?”
Jack felt almost beside himself in the short interval that preceded the
discharge, and his throat seemed parched.
Crack!
The three pairs of blades flashed through the water at the same moment,
and neither boat seemed to gain any decided advantage as they bounded
away from the buoy amid the cheers of everybody.
“Hurrah for the Doctor!”
“Hit her up, Tom!”
“Bully for you, Jack!”
It took our hero some minutes to get his head clear enough to be able
to perceive what he was doing, as compared with his opponents. He rowed
on and on excitedly without realizing anything. He was conscious of
rowing a rather quicker and more jerky stroke than usual. His eyes were
misty and his throat drier than ever. The cheers of the spectators were
growing fainter, and he felt that it was time to settle down to work.
He made a gulp and looked about him. On his right was Tom pulling like
grim death, at a rate which seemed to lift his boat almost out of the
water. The stern of Tom’s shell was nearly on a level with the back
sweep of his own oars, which showed plainly that Tom had not far from
half a length’s lead on him. On the other side was the Doctor in his
blue and white jersey, rowing steadily and smoothly as clockwork, neck
and neck with him.
[Illustration: THE BOAT RACE.]
“Softly now,” said Jack to himself. “This is too fast company for me.
If Tom can keep this racket up he’ll get there first. My only chance is
to let up a bit.”
Accordingly he lessened the number of strokes to the minute by making
each of them longer and more sweeping, with the immediate result that
he felt in better shape, and that Tom had gained no further advantage
on him. But there was no let-up to Tom. He had the lead and was bent on
keeping it.
They were too far off now for the shouts to reach them. Not a sound was
audible to Jack but the slight plashing of the oars in the water. Over
his shoulder Tom was struggling onward, and abreast of him, pulling
with apparently no effort whatever and watching alertly the movements
of his rivals, could be seen the dangerous Doctor. But Jack, too, felt
calm now and fresher than when he started. He can even put a little
more back muscle into his stroke, he thinks, as he feels his grip
tighten on the oars with the consciousness of growing vigor. A few more
sweeps like that will close up the gap between his out-rigger and Tom’s.
But why does not the Doctor bend to his work to keep him company? The
Doctor is pulling a waiting race evidently, and is going to let his
rivals blow themselves against one another before he has an oar in the
fight. Otherwise surely he would not have let Jack forge ahead so that
he has to look round the corner now in order to watch him. The Doctor
is an old hand and has seen many a race lost by too lively a pace at
the start.
“Steady,” reflects Jack, again trying to keep cool as he realizes that
he has a lead over his most dangerous enemy. “Don’t hit her up too
lively.” He appreciates the Doctor’s tactics, and is not going to fall
into the trap if he can help it, even though Tom, spurred on by swift
pursuit, has put on more steam and is holding his own bravely. They
are not far from the flagged buoy now. Jack can see it distinctly and
has in mind that he must be careful to avoid a foul. They are likely
to pass it in the order in which they are at present, about half a
length apart, and Tom has the inside water. All three are pulling like
well-oiled machines, and not a symptom of distress comes from either
boat.
Tom turns first, and very cleverly too, close to the buoy so as to
give no one a chance to cut in, and starts for home, but the others
are at his heels and right after him. Jack in passing catches the eye
of Sampson, the judge at the turn, and feels cool enough to nod in
friendly fashion. Halfway, and he is still fresh as ever! He would like
to try to press Tom, but for fear of the cool, deliberate Doctor barely
astern. He remembers Carlisle’s caution not to spurt until he has to,
and only bends strongly and firmly to his accustomed stroke, which,
however, is losing him no ground to say the least. Tom is evidently
uneasy and is working to shake him off, forgetful, it appears, of his
experience in forcing the pace a year ago. But Tom is a better oar than
a year ago, and perhaps has taken that into account.
Ah there! The Doctor is waking up at last, and is putting in some
stronger work; nothing very strenuous, but lively enough to warn Jack
that he must have his head about him if he hopes to keep his lead to
the end. One thing is certain now: Tom will have to row faster or give
in; after which reflection Jack slightly quickens his stroke, and
without actually spurting bends every muscle. Now or never! They are
only half a mile from home, and a waiting race may be delayed too long.
Already they are within ear-shot of the encouraging shouts of the crews
and scullers on either side of their path, who have come out to meet
them and are rowing back to be in at the finish. Now or never! Will
Tom be able to quicken his pace? That is the question. He does quicken
it, so much so that he is rowing desperately fast with short lightning
strokes, which come so rapidly that it is difficult to note the
interval between them. Brilliant, magnificent! “but,” as some one who
knew said of the famous charge of the Light Brigade, “it is not war.”
It is slaughter, my dear Tom, and simple ruination. You cannot keep it
up. Even as it is, in spite of your splendid pyrotechnics, Jack’s long
steady swing is holding you, and what is more, pressing you into the
bargain.
“Steady now,” murmurs Jack between his teeth. He knows from Tom’s
exertions that his rival is spurting and putting all his vitality into
his pace. A terrible moment of sustained effort follows, at the end
of which the leader lashes the air with a misplaced stroke, the water
splashes, and our hero’s shell surging forward comes on a level with
its forerunner, battles with it for twenty yards of struggling agony
on the part of the doomed champion, and leaps to the front at last,
just in time to meet the sweet music of the prolonged triumphant din of
shouts and cheers sent down the breeze from afar by hundreds of voices.
Jack is ahead, and only a quarter of a mile left!
Tom is beaten. And now for the Doctor. Where is he? What is he doing?
No need to ask that question, friend Jack, if you lift your eyes. Tom
is beaten, not only by you but by the Doctor also; and though your most
dreaded enemy is still in your rear, the nose of his boat is almost on
a line with your stern, and he is quickening at every stroke.
What a babel of cheers and exclamations bursts forth from the waving,
transported crowd along the bank and on the benches of the densely
packed stand! They begin to know who is who now, and can tell beyond
the shadow of a doubt that the crimson and black and the blue and white
are having a noble struggle for the lead.
“Jack Hall is ahead! Hall! Hall! No, he isn’t! Hit her up, Doctor!
Hurrah for Hall! Hurrah for the Doctor! Tom, where are you? Bonsall!
Bonsall! H-A-L-L! Hall-l-l!”
The tumult is maddening. Can it be possible that Jack Hall, who, on
the whole, before the race was rated lowest of the three, is going to
break the school record and beat the invincible Doctor in one and the
same breath? It looks like it, if he can hold his own for two hundred
yards more. It looks like it decidedly, and there is plenty of clear
water still between the winning goal and the foremost shell; and see,
the Doctor is spurting with a vengeance――look!――look!――and is he not
gaining, too?
“Doctor Meredith is ahead! No, he’s not――Hall’s ahead! Huzza! hurrah!
Hall, Hall, hit her up, Hall! Look out, Hall! The Doctor wins! No he
doesn’t! Hall wins! Hurrah! Jack, where are you?”
The Doctor has crept up, no doubt about that. The nose of his shell is
now well beyond Jack’s out-rigger, and he is speeding like the wind.
Jack is feeling terribly tired, his throat that he thought parched
at the start burns as if it were on fire, and his eyes seem ready to
start out of his head. His crimson handkerchief has fallen over his
eyes, but he gives himself a shake and it falls to his neck, leaving
his brow refreshingly free. He has vanquished Tom any way. So much to
be thankful for. Tom is a length behind, struggling still like the man
he is, but hopelessly vanquished all the same. Jack turns his head,
remembering to keep cool if he can, and sights the goal. Not more than
one hundred and fifty yards left! The reverberating yells and cheers
are setting his blood ablaze. He can scarcely see, but he knows he has
not spurted yet. He is neck and neck with the Doctor now. There can be
nothing to choose between them.
“The Doctor wins!” “Not a bit of it; Hall wins! Good on your head,
Jack! Keep it up, Doctor! Go in, Hall!”
The time has come now, our hero knows, to put in any spurt that is left
in him. Gripping the handles of his oars like a vise and shutting his
eyes, Jack throws all his vital powers into one grand effort, which, to
his supreme happiness, is answered by a great roar from the shore.
“Hall! Hall! Hurrah! Nobly done, Hall! Hall wins! Row, Doctor, row!”
The Doctor is rowing with all his might, you may be sure of that; but
he has not counted on the staying powers of his adversary. He can do no
more than he is doing, and this final spurt of Jack’s, exhausting as
it must have been were the race to be a quarter of a mile longer, will
carry the day. The Doctor can hardly catch him now.
Jack has opened his eyes and takes in the situation. The din of
applause is tremendous. If he can hold out for half a dozen strokes
more, the victory is his.
One.
“Hall! Hall! Go in, Doctor!”
Two.
“Three cheers for Hall! One,――hurrah!――Two, hurrah!”
Three.
“Three,――hurrah! H-A-L-L!”
Four.
“Hall wins! Hall wins!”
Five.
“Hurrah! Huzza! Hurrah! Hall! Hall! Doctor! Doctor!”
Six.
Panting, breathless, and bewildered by the deafening cheers, Jack is
made aware only by the sight of the flagged buoy shooting past his
oar-blade that he has won the race and is champion of Utopia. A second
later the Doctor’s shell glides beside his own, and his master is the
first to shake his hand in hearty congratulation.
“You beat me squarely and fairly, Hall. It was a grand race. You are
the better oarsman of the two.”
Tom Bonsall, coming up on the other side, is scarcely less generous,
though he looks a little sheepish, poor fellow, and winded and pale.
Excitement keeps Jack up, and he paddles in gamy fashion to the float,
where he is welcomed by a score of hands and lifted on to the shoulders
of his enthusiastic friends, who, cheering like mad, carry him up to
the boat-house.
“Well, old man, you did it after all,” said Carlisle, who was grinning
like a Cheshire cat in his enthusiasm. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t
believe you could get away from the Doctor.”