THE RACE--THE START.
The Winnequa-Yahara race was open to all boats of the respective clubs
under forty feet, each boat with a beam one-fifth the water-line
length. It was to be a five-mile contest, each end of the course marked
by a stake boat anchored at each end of Fourth Lake. The stake boat,
with the judges, was to be moored off Maple Bluff. From this boat the
racers would start, round the other stake boat, and finish at the
starting point.
Furthermore, although the race was open to all members of the two
respective clubs with boats under the extreme length, there was a
mutual agreement, from the beginning, that one member of each club
should be commissioned to provide the boat to be entered in the
contest. Inasmuch as a speed boat costs money, it was natural that the
sons of rich men should be told off to carry the honors.
Mr. Merton and Mr. Lorry were both millionaires. They were known to be
indulgent fathers, and it had not been foreseen that Mr. Lorry would
rebel, at first, against George's extravagance.
But George had gone too far. Mr. Lorry, even at that, might have paid
for George's $5,000 hydroplane had he understood that his son was
bearing the Yahara honors on his own shoulders and had been lured into
extravagance by a misguided notion of his responsibility.
However, this initial misunderstanding, with all its disastrous
entanglements, was a thing of the past. Both Mr. Lorry and George had
buried it deep, and were meeting each other in a closer relationship
than they had ever known before.
The struggle for the De Lancey cup had become, to Madison, what the
fight for the America Cup had become to the United States. Only, in
the case of the De Lancey cup, the city was divided against itself.
The entire population had ranged itself on one side or the other.
The gun that started the race was to be fired at 2 o'clock, but early
in the forenoon launches began passing through the chain of lakes, and
through the canal and locks that led to the scene of the contest.
The distance had already been measured and the stake boats placed.
All along the course buoys marked the boundaries. Later there were to
be police boats, darting here and there to see that the boundary line
was respected and the course kept clear. Through this lane of water,
hemmed in by craft of every description, the two boats were to speed to
victory or defeat.
Observers, however, did not confine themselves to the boats. The
cottages on Maple Bluff, and the surrounding heights, offered splendid
vantage ground for sightseers. Early in the forenoon automobiles
began moving out toward Maple Bluff, loaded with passengers. And each
automobile carried a hamper with lunch for those who traveled with it.
Most of the citizens made of the event a picnic affair.
The asylum grounds also held their quota of sightseers with opera
glasses or more powerful binoculars; and Governor's Island, and the
shore all the way around to Picnic Point.
The day was perfect. Fortunately for the many craft assembled, the wind
was light, and what little there was was not from the west. Fourth Lake
was to be as calm as a pond.
Steadily, up to 1 o'clock, the throng of sightseers afloat and ashore
was added to.
The sixty-five-foot motor yacht, serving as stake boat at the starting
and finishing point, was boarded by Mr. Lorry and Ethel. The judges
were from both clubs, and so the boat was given over to the use of a
limited number of Winnequas and Yaharas and their partisans.
As Mr. Lorry and Ethel came over the side of the yacht they were
greeted by a tall, gray-haired man and a stout, middle-aged lady.
"Why, Merton!" exclaimed Mr. Lorry. "You had to get back in time for
the race, eh? Madam," and he doffed his hat to the lady at Merton's
side, "I trust I find you well?"
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Lorry," replied Mrs. Merton. "How are you,
my dear?" and the lady turned and gave her hand to Ethel.
"There's where they start and finish, Lorry," said Mr. Merton, pointing
to the port side of the boat. "Bring up chairs and we'll preƫmpt our
places now."
When the four were all comfortably seated, a certain embarrassment born
of the fact that each man was there to watch the performance of his
son's boat crept into their talk.
"Will George be in his boat?" inquired Mr. Merton, taking a glance
around at the gay bunting with which the assembled craft were dressed.
"No," said Mr. Lorry.
"Ollie will be in _his_ launch," and there was ever so small a taunt in
the words.
"Ollie's boat is bigger than George's, Merton," answered the other
mildly. "George's driver figured that an extra hundred-and-forty pounds
had better stay out of the _Sprite_."
"Who drives for George?"
"Motor Matt."
Mr. Merton was startled.
"Why," said he, "I thought he was hurt in that boathouse fire and
couldn't be out of bed?"
"He's hurt, and only one-handed, but he's too plucky to stay out of the
race."
"Probably," said Mr. Merton coolly, "the pay he receives is quite an
item. I understand Motor Matt is poor, and out for all the money he can
get."
"You have been wrongly informed, Merton. Not a word as to what he shall
receive has passed between George and Motor Matt. The boys are friends."
"I'd be a little careful, if I were you, how I allowed my son to pick
up with a needy adventurer."
"Motor Matt is neither needy nor an adventurer," said Mr. Lorry warmly.
"I'm proud to have George on intimate terms with him."
"Oh, well," laughed Mr. Merton; "have a cigar."
Ethel was having a conversation along similar lines with Mrs. Merton,
and she was as staunchly upholding Motor Matt as was her father. So
earnestly did the girl speak that the elder lady drew back and eyed her
through a lorgnette.
"Careful, my dear," said she.
Ethel knew what she meant, and flushed with temper. But both Ethel and
her father, deep down in their hearts, pitied Mr. and Mrs. Merton. If
they had known of the unscrupulous attack their son had caused to be
made on Motor Matt, they would perhaps have spoken differently--or not
at all.
Fortunately, it may be, for the four comprising the little party, a
band on a near-by cruising boat began to play.
Then, a moment later, a din of cheers rolled over the lake.
"There's Ollie!" cried Mrs. Merton, starting up excitedly to flutter
her handkerchief.
Yes, the _Dart_ was coming down the open lane, having entered the
course from the boathouse, where she had been lying ever since early
morning. She was a 25-foot boat, with trim racing lines, and she shot
through the water in a way that left no doubt of her speed.
"How's that?" cried Mr. Merton, nudging Mr. Lorry with his elbow.
"Nearly everybody was expecting the _Wyandotte_, and just look what
we're springing on you!"
"She looks pretty good," acknowledged Mr. Lorry.
"Well, I should say so!"
"But not good enough," went on Mr. Lorry.
"Have you got five thousand that thinks the same way?"
"No, Merton. I quit betting a good many years ago."
The _Dart_ raced up and down the course, showing what she could do in
short stretches, but not going over the line for a record. Halloran,
the red-haired driver of the _Dart_, and Ollie Merton were fine-looking
young fellows in their white yachting caps, white flannel shirts, and
white duck trousers.
From time to time Mr. Lorry consulted his watch, checking off the
quarter hours impatiently and wondering why Motor Matt and the _Sprite_
did not put in an appearance. Could it be possible that Matt had not
been able to leave the house on Yankee Hill, after all? If he was able
to be out, then why didn't he come along and give the _Sprite_ a little
warming up?
The boat had not had an actual try-out since the changes had been made
in her.
Mr. Lorry did not realize that it was too late, then, for a try-out;
nor did he know that Matt was saving himself for the contest, and not
intending to reach the course much before the time arrived for the
starting gun to be fired.
Five minutes before two a little saluting gun barked sharply from the
forward deck of the stake boat.
"I guess your boat isn't coming, Lorry," said Mr. Merton. "There's only
five minutes left for----"
The words were taken out of his mouth by a roaring cheer from down the
line of boats. The cheer was caught up and repeated from boat to boat
until the whole surface of the lake seemed to echo back the frantic
yells.
Mr. Lorry leaped to his feet and waved his hat, while Ethel sprang up
in her chair and excitedly shook her veil.
For the _Sprite_ was coming!
Motor Matt, a little pale and carrying his right arm in a sling, came
jogging down the wide lane toward the stake boat. There was a resolute
light in his keen, gray eyes, and his trained left hand performed its
many duties unerringly.
The danger from which Matt had plucked the _Sprite_ at the burning
boathouse was known far and wide, and it was his gameness in entering
the race handicapped as he was that called forth the tremendous ovation.
Dexterously he passed the stake boat and brought the _Sprite_ slowly
around for the start.
The _Sprite_ was charred and blistered, and, as McGlory had humorously
put it, the "skin was barked all off her nose," because of her
collision with the water door; but there she was, fit and ready for
the race of her life.
She did not compare favorably with the handsome _Dart_; but then,
beauty is only skin deep. It's what's inside of a boat, as well as of a
man, that counts.
Slowly the boats manoeuvred, waiting for the gun. The silence was
intense, breathless. Then----
Bang!
The little saluting gun puffed out its vapory breath. Matt could be
seen leaning against the wheel, holding it firm with his body while his
left hand played over the levers.
It was a pretty start. Both the _Sprite_ and the _Dart_ passed the
stake boat neck and neck.
"They're off," muttered Lorry, with a wheeze, drawing a handkerchief
over his forehead.
It is nothing to his discredit that his hand shook a little.
"Oh, dad," whispered Ethel, clasping her father's arm, "didn't he look
fine and--and determined? I know he'll win, I just _know_ it."
"Say, Lorry," asked Mr. Merton, "who's that youngster over there on
that launch--the one that's making such a fool of himself."
"That?" asked Mr. Lorry, squinting in the direction indicated. "Oh,
that's my nephew, McGlory. But don't blame him for acting the fool--I
feel a little inclined that way myself."