A CLOSE FINISH
"Come on now, fellows, hit her up again! All together and I want every
man to sing! Ready now!" and Bean Perkins, the official cheer-leader,
the "shouter" of Randall, signalled with his megaphone to his cohorts
who were lined up near the boathouse, in and around which the
various crews or single-shell men were gathered. "Tear it out now!"
commanded Bean, and that glorious old Latin song--"_Aut Vincere, Aut
Mori!_"--"Either We Conquer or We Die!" welled out over the river. It
was the song that, time and again, had urged Randall on to victory.
Would it once more?
"When are we going to start?" asked Tom, as he walked back and forth on
the float, clad in rowing togs, as were a score of others, for a number
of substitutes had been provided.
"Don't get nervous now, old man," advised Frank. "The shell will be in
the water soon, and then we'll go down to the starting point. They're
going to run off all the other races first, you know. We're last. We've
got more than hour yet. Better get on a sweater and a blanket, you might
be chilly. You fellows do the same thing," he commanded, to his crew.
"I wish we were going in first--and get it over with," said Sid. "This
waiting----"
"Say, cut it out!" cried Frank. "If you fellows want to have a case of
nerves go off by yourselves somewhere. I want to watch the other races."
"I think our fellows have a good chance in the four," said Dan Woodhouse.
"We've got a good chance in everything--do you hear that, me boy?" cried
Bricktop, in his rich brogue. "We're going to win everything! Just
because you're in the eight you mustn't be selfish."
"I'm not, only----"
"Here comes our four!" interrupted Frank. "A cheer for 'em, boys!" and
the echoes vibrated as the rallying cry went forth.
"Come on now, fellows," cried Bean, dancing about, the colors of Randall
on his megaphone fluttering in the wind. "All yell--
"We can row you on the water,
We can race you on the land.
We can wallop you at football
And at baseball beat the band!
"That's us--Randall!" and the song and cry sent the members of the
four-oared crew rejoicing on their way. They were Joe Jackson--Jerry's
twin brother--Bert Trendell, Pete Backus and Sam Terry.
Early in the season Bean Perkins had been picked for the four, but he
had not made good. Anyhow, he declared, he could help Randall more with
yelling than any other way, and many agreed with him, for Bean was
certainly a "shouter."
The river presented a gay scene. It was fairly covered with boats, until
it seemed an impossibility that a race could be held. But the course had
been marked off, and soon the boats of the officials would patrol the
water-pathway and clear it.
Owing to the different lengths of the various races, several starting
points had been selected, and the races had been timed so that the
crowds could get from one to the other to watch the beginning if they
desired. Of course the eight-oared race was the longest--three miles in
this case, since the course of the river, narrowing as it did at several
points, did not offer any longer course at any place available to the
colleges. And three eight-oared shells take up considerable room abreast.
Launches, rowboats, and a sailboat or two, made up the craft holding the
spectators. In addition the banks of the river, for a mile or more,
were gay with those who had come to witness the aquatic sports. The
finish of all the races was to be at the Randall boathouse. This had
been decided by lot, and our friends had been lucky. They were glad,
too, since they could offer the hospitality of their new building
to their rivals. And, in a way, Fairview and Boxer were glad, as
their boathouses were rather ancient, and could accommodate only a
comparatively few guests, while Randall's was large and roomy.
Fairview and Boxer Hall had their crews or individual rowers nearly all
assembled. A few were not yet on hand, and some of the shells had not
yet arrived. But all was in readiness for the three-cornered four-oared
shell contest.
"Say, who's going to win?" challenged Tom of Ruth, for the girls, as you
may well suppose, had been provided with choice places by our friends,
where they could see all the finishes well.
"Who's going to win?" repeated Madge Tyler. "Why, we are, of course! See
our colors?" and she flaunted them in Tom's face.
He looked at Ruth, and beneath a bow of the ribbon of the hues of
Fairview, Tom caught a glimpse of his own college colors--a tiny bow.
Ruth saw his glance, smiled and--blushed.
"You may win some, but the eight comes to us!" declared Sid.
"Oh, aren't we the sure ones, though!" mocked Helen Newton.
"Wait until it's all over," advised Mabel Harrison.
"They're going to start!" suddenly cried Madge, as the three four-oared
shells moved off down the stream.
"No, they're only going to the starting point," said Frank. "This is
only a mile race, and they decided to row down to it instead of being
towed, so as to get a little warm-up practice. I thought it would be a
good thing for our crew to row down to the start, but Mr. Lighton says
he has provided a launch for us, and the shell will be towed."
"I wish it was all over," murmured Tom.
"So do I," agreed Ruth, in a low voice.
"Come on now, boys! Another song!" demanded Bean Perkins, and the
strains welled forth.
"Three cheers for Boxer Hall!" came the demand, and it was given with a
will.
"Three big ones for Fairview!" called an adherent of that co-educational
institution.
The four-oared crews, selected after much elimination work, were
approaching their starting point. They were out of sight of those at
the boathouse now, and it would be a little time before they appeared,
rowing to the finish line.
The band began to play. There was gay laughter and talk, and some
nervous walking about by those lads who were to race next. The course
had been cleared, though now and then some craft would trespass on it,
to be hustled out of the way by the official boats.
It seemed an almost interminable time before the shout sounded:
"Here they come!"
There was a craning forward by all. Many who had fieldglasses used them.
Ruth produced a pair.
"Who's leading?" begged Tom, in an agony of doubt.
"Fairview!" she replied.
"No, really?" and he almost grabbed the binoculars from her hands.
"That's right," he admitted, grimly. "But our boys are pulling strong."
"If they can only win!" breathed Sid.
"Keep still!" commanded Phil, whose nerves, as were those of his chums,
were at a tension.
Cheers began to drift along the shore, coming from the crowds lining the
banks.
"Randall has pulled up!" cried Sid. "Our boys are rowing strong!"
"They've got a ways to go to finish," murmured Tom. "Oh, if they can
last it out!"
Randall had a good lead now, and it was seen that Fairview was splashing
badly. It developed later that two of her four-oared crew were
overtrained--they could not stand the heart-breaking strain at the
finish.
"Come on, you Randall! Come on!" was the cry.
"Boxer's creeping up!"
"No, Randall's taken a spurt!"
Conflicting were the cries. The boats were see-sawing now. They were
getting nearer and nearer to the finish line. The crowds leaned forward.
Pandemonium broke loose. All three colleges were being cheered.
"It's going to be a tie!" yelled Phil, as he pointed to the Boxer and
Randall shells, now almost bow and bow. "A dead heat! Fairview is out of
it!"
"Come on, boys!" implored Tom, stretching out his hands as though to
pull their shell forward.
There came a momentary hush. Then a great roar broke out.
"Boxer! Boxer Hall wins! Wow, look at that spurt!"
And, with sinking hearts, our friends watched their rival's shell dart
over the line, a winner by a bare quarter of a length--but still a
winner.