THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS
"Here they come, boys! Get ready!" yelled Bean Perkins, wildly waving
his megaphone. "Here they come!"
"Oh wow!" shouted Joe Jackson. "For the love of C├Žsar tell us who's
ahead."
"It's hard to see from here. But I think----"
"Oh, who cares what you _think_?" interrupted a lad. "Don't give us any
false information."
"Get ready boys!" cried Bean again. "The college cheer when they get
opposite the old boathouse, and then the 'Conquer or Die' song. We've
got to pull 'em on!"
All was excitement. A hundred voices mingled in expressions of hopes and
fears. The rival college cheers blended into one riotous conglomeration
of sound. The three shells were sweeping on to victory--victory for just
one!
"Oh, Madge!" cried Ruth. "I daren't look. Here, you take the field
glasses, and tell me who's ahead."
Her own college colors slipped from her dress unheeded, and there was
disclosed the tiny knot of Randall's maroon and yellow.
"Ruth!" expostulated Mabel, as she pointed to the traitorous hues.
"I don't care!" replied Ruth, as her hand went to where her restored
brooch was at her throat.
"Who's ahead?" demanded Helen Newton, as Madge peered through the
glasses.
"Fairview!"
"What?"
"She is! She is! Oh, girls, Fairview is going to win!"
"Who--who is second?" demanded Mabel.
"Randall!" came the reply.
Then there was silence. The girls looked at one another. What they
thought, who shall say?
On came the three shells. The cheers increased. There was a din of horns
and rattles. The band played madly--no one knew what the tune was--and
cared less.
"Steady all!" cried Jerry, as he noticed a tendency to quicken. "Steady
all!"
On came the Randall shell. Just a little to her rear was Boxer
Hall, struggling desperately and with breaking hearts to offset the
disadvantage of overtraining and over-confidence. For that is just what
it amounted to. It looked hopeless for them now.
As for Fairview, she had maintained the lead she had unexpectedly gained
over Randall, and the eager--almost bursting--hearts in the boat hoped
that the co-educational college could row it out unto the end. But there
was no disguising the fact to themselves that they were rowing against
such a rival as they had never before met.
For a moment after Jerry had given the word to increase the stroke, his
chums thought that he would keep them on that for a hundred yards or so,
and then hit up the pace still faster. But he did not. Instead, coolly
and calmly, he glanced critically at the Fairview shell, and kept on at
the same rate.
"Hang it all, why doesn't he give the word to spurt?" thought Frank, as
his broad back rose and fell to the measured rhythm. "We can do it!"
But Jerry was a wise little coxswain. Not for nothing had he spied out
the course, so that he knew every foot of it, and by marks previously
noted, he could tell exactly how far they were from the finish mark.
Nearer and nearer to it came the eight-oared shells. Boxer Hall was
struggling hard to pull up, but for once she had met her match--two, in
fact, for it was easy now to see that the race, barring accidents, lay
between Randall and Fairview.
"And, oh! May we win!" prayed Tom and his chums. And they could not
understand why Jerry would not put them at their limit. True, their
hearts were pumping at an abnormal rate, their muscles strained as they
never had before, and their breath came labored, and went out gaspingly.
And then, when Coxswain Jerry, with his eager eyes, saw a certain old
gnarled tree on the river bank, and when he had noted that Fairview had
added another stroke per minute, then and not until then did he give the
word.
He had slid down into his seat, feeling the tiller lines as a horseman
feels with the reins the mouth of his pet racer. Gently, as if the shell
were some delicate machine, did Jerry guide her on the course. Now the
time had come!
Up he sat, like one electrified. Through the megaphone strapped to his
mouth came the words:
"Row, boys! Row as you never rowed before! Put all you can to the
stroke. I call for thirty-three! Give it to 'em! Give it to 'em!"
It seemed as though the Randall shell was suddenly galvanized into
action. Reaching forward over their toes, eight sturdy backs bent for
the stroke. Then it came.
A pull that seemed to lift the frail shell from the water--a pull that
strained on the outriggers--a pull that made the stout oars creak and
bend! A stroke that sent the water swirling aft in rings, circles,
whirlpools and a smother of foam! A stroke that told!
"Row! Row!" screamed Jerry.
Daring another glance, Frank, at stroke, saw the Fairview boat seemingly
at a standstill. But it was not so. It was that Randall had shot up to
her.
From the shores, from the boathouse, from the other craft, came a riot
of sound--shouts, yells, the tooting of horns, the clatter of rattles.
There was a veritable flower garden of waving colors. The shrill voices
of the girls mingled with the hoarser shouts of the men and boys.
Whistles blew, and dogs barked to add to the din.
"Row! Row!" Jerry fairly screamed.
"Pick it up, boys!" pleaded the Fairview coxswain. He had not thought
that his rivals had this spurt in them.
"Can't you do it? Can't you get up to them?" begged Pinky Davenport, of
his Boxer lads, and there were unashamed tears in his eyes as he made
his last appeal. But Boxer was "all in."
"Now boys, now!" shouted Jerry. "It's your last chance! A hundred yards
more--only three hundred feet! Row! Row! We must win."
"Don't let 'em pass us!" came from the Fairview coxswain. "A few
strokes--only a few more!"
The boats were even! Pandemonium had now broken loose. The band was
drowned out by shouts. Ruth found herself hammering Madge on the back,
and shouting--she knew not what--in her ear. Madge was crying--she did
not know why.
As for the Randall lads, they were mere machines. There was no more
thought left in them. They saw nothing, but each man in front of him
viewed his fore-man's back--Frank could not see the face of Jackson, but
he could hear his rasping voice.
"Row! Row!"
How Frank heaved! How he dug at the giving water at the end of his
blade as though he would tear it from the river and fling it aloft in a
rainbow arch.
And how Bricktop Molloy took up the stroke, his honest Irish face wet
with sweat--his red hair plastered down on his forehead. Back and forth
he bent. After him came Holly Cross picking up the stroke masterly--then
Kindlings--good old Kindlings with something of the fire of his name in
his sturdy muscles--then Housenlager--all the desire for horseplay gone
from him. Then Sid, who had been shifted back to Number Three almost at
the last moment. Then Phil, and then Tom.
And how they rowed! Surely the ancient gods--surely even Hercules at his
twelve labors--never toiled more Titanically than these eight rowers.
No galley slave, chained to the oar, with the vessel on fire above him,
with the shrieks of the dying in his ears, the stench of Greek fire in
his nostrils, ever rowed more desperately.
"Row! Row!" screamed Jerry.
"Row! Row!" echoed Roger Barns.
The finish line was but a hundred feet away. Slowly, oh, so slowly, did
the Randall boat creep up on her rival.
Now she was past! Another electric thrill went through Jerry.
"Row! Row!" he screamed, and his voice was hoarse. His hands, tense and
gripped, were clasped so tightly on the tiller ropes, that afterward
they had to loosen them for him. The muscles had gone dead, but he
steered with the skill of a veteran.
It grew black before Tom's eyes. He felt that his lungs were bursting.
Frank knew that if he dipped the oar in the water again he would not
have strength to pull it out.
But, somehow he did!
And then with one last spurt, a spurt that seemed to wrench the very
roots of their hearts, a pull that seemed to tear their very muscles
loose, the lads in the Randall shell sent their boat over the finish
line a winner--a winner by half a length--a winner! They were the
eight-oared victors!
And, as they realized this--as it came to them--their eyes that saw not
lighted up--their faces, seamed and lined with the contracted muscles,
broke into smiles, and then Tom toppled over on his oar, and Frank fell
weakly back on Molloy.
"Easy there, me lad, easy," panted Bricktop. "It's all over. You
collapsed at the right minute! Oh, wow, but I'm thirsty!"
Jerry Jackson was struggling with the tiller lines wound about his
nerveless hands. Ready chums loosed them, and helped him from the shell
onto a boat, the crew having recovered sufficiently to put their broad
blades out on the water to steady the shell.
And then, following the hush that came after the hysterical outburst
which greeted the winners, came floating over the heads of the great
throng:
"_Aut Vincere! Aut Mori!_"
But Randall had conquered, though she had nearly died.
* * * * *
Somehow the crew heard the cheers for themselves, for their coach and
for the plucky little coxswain. Somehow they managed to cheer Fairview
and Boxer Hall, and then they were hurried into the dressing rooms.
"I knew you could do it! I knew you could do it!" cried Mr. Lighton,
capering about like a boy. "I knew we could make a rowing crew in one
season with the material we had."
"Faith, an' ye did, me lad!" declared Bricktop, while Housenlager feebly
punched Tom in the ribs, a bit of horseplay that our hero was too tired
to resent.
"Someone to see Mr. Parsons!" called Wallops, the college messenger, who
was helping out at the boathouse. He peered into the anteroom of the
dressing apartments.
"I can't see anyone now," declared Tom. "Who is it?"
"He says his name is Farson, and----"
"The jeweler!" cried Tom. "Show him in!" and he came from under a shower
and grabbed up some garments. "There must be something doing!" he added
to Sid and Phil, who had heard the words.
Somewhat bewildered by the athletic throng about him, the jeweler
entered.
"Where are you, Mr. Parsons?" he asked.
"Here!" cried Tom. "What is it?"
"Everything! I have just received word from the police that they have
arrested that pawnbroker. He has all the Boxer Hall cups, and most
of the other jewelry. Nearly everything is recovered. All but that
old-fashioned brooch you told me about. That he says he never had."
"And he's right," added Tom. "I recovered that. But who took the things?"
"Blasdell. The island caretaker took them out of my box when the boat
landed on the island, and disposed of them. Then he hid the pawn tickets
in the shack, taking away the brooch he had previously hidden there.
"Blasdell has been arrested too. He has made a full confession. He and
the pawnbroker have been in with a bad set, and were planning other
crimes. But I will soon have nearly everything back. I thought you might
be glad to know, so I came here as soon as I heard. I had to wait until
after the race, though."
"We are glad to hear the news," spoke Frank. "So Mendez is not in it
after all."
"No, the confessions of the others completely clear him. I must go tell
the Boxer Hall boys the good news."
"And it is almost as good news to us as to them," said Tom, as he went
in to finish dressing.
The regatta was over. Randall, in spite of heavy odds and in spite of
losing all but one race, was proclaimed champion of the Tonoka Lake
League.
"But we'll do you next year!" prophesied Pinky Davenport. "I think the
loss of our cups was a hoodoo to us."
"Maybe," admitted Tom. "But next year is--well, next year, and we're
not greenies any more."
"I guess you never were," admitted his rival.
"And now let's go see the girls, and tell them how sorry we are that we
beat them," proposed Sid.
If the girls felt badly they did not show it much.
"What I can't understand," said Phil, a little later, when he and his
chums, and his sister and her chums were talking it all over at a little
supper in Haddonfield, "what I can't understand is how Boswell knew Ruth
had lost her pin, and wanted to give her another."
"He didn't know it--stupid!" exclaimed Ruth, with a blush. "Only Tom
knew it."
"But Boswell was going to give you a pin."
"Oh, can't a fellow give a girl a pin without knowing that she has lost
one or you making a fuss over it?" asked Sid.
"But--but----" faltered Phil.
"He heard that I was fond of old-fashioned jewelry," explained Ruth,
blushing, "and I suppose, instead of--er--well--say candy, he hunted
up an old-style pin. He had bought one for his mother from Mendez, and
wanted one for me. It was lucky that Blasdell did not pawn my pin with
the other stuff. Instead he sold it to Mendez, who, in turn, sold it to
Mr. Boswell, and Tom--well, Tom did the rest."
"And you were without grandmother's pin all that while, and never let
on!" cried Phil. "Oh, you're a sly one, Sis!"
"And the colored handkerchiefs, and Boswell were useless as clues," went
on Sid. "They were just false alarms. But I wonder why Mendez was so
anxious to see Boswell that day we went on our little picnic?"
"Mendez explained that," said Tom. "He had had some intimation that his
selling of smuggled cigars was likely to be dangerous, and, as Boswell
had bought some he wanted to talk about it, and get his advice. That was
all. It seems that when Boswell and the Mexican were together on the
island one day Mendez cut his finger and Boswell tore off a strip of the
silk handkerchief. Boswell told me that."
"And I guess that explains everything," remarked Phil. "I want some more
ice-cream. We've broken training now, you know."
And so the merry little party feasted and laughed and softly sang their
college songs until the girls protested that they must get back, or Miss
Philock--well, various opinions were expressed about that lady.
"Stop that infernal clock!" grunted Tom, a little later, as he lay half
asleep on the old sofa in the common room.
"Stop it yourself," murmured Phil, sprawled in one easy chair, while
Frank occupied another. Sid had declared himself done up after the
race, and had gone to bed. From his room he murmured in a sleepy voice:
"Sounds like Jerry calling--'Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!' doesn't it?"
"Cut it out!" said Phil. "I don't want to see an oar for six months
again."
"It will be pigskin punts from now on," spoke Tom, as he returned from
jabbing a toothpick into the clock's interior, and turned over to doze
again.
"And then good old Winter!" exclaimed Frank. "I say, fellows, what's
the matter with getting up some iceboat races," and he galvanized into
uprightness.
"Talk about it to-morrow," sleepily murmured Sid, but the suggestion
bore fruit, as you may learn by reading the next volume of this series,
to be called "Rivals of the Ice; A Story of Winter Sports at College."
It will tell how, after a strenuous football season, the lads formed an
ice league, for skating, hockey playing, and ice-yacht racing.
Outside the college there was singing and the building of bonfires
to celebrate the victory of the crew. But in their room, four of the
eight-oared victors dozed dreamily on, living over again in fancy that
strenuously-fought-out race which they had so labored over. And there,
for a time, we will leave them.
THE END
THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES
BY LESTER CHADWICK
_12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_
_=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_
[Illustration]
_Mr. Chadwick has played on the diamond and on the gridiron himself._
1. THE RIVAL PITCHERS
_A Story of College Baseball_
Tom Parsons, a "hayseed," makes good on the scrub team of Randall
College.
2. A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK
_A Story of College Football_
A football story, told in Mr. Chadwick's best style, that is bound to
grip the reader from the start.
3. BATTING TO WIN
_A Story of College Baseball_
Tom Parsons and his friends Phil and Sid are the leading players on
Randall College team. There is a great game.
4. THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
_A Story of College Football_
After having to reorganize their team at the last moment, Randall makes
a touchdown that won a big game.
5. FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL.
_A Story of College Athletics_
The winning of the hurdle race and long-distance run is extremely
exciting.
6. THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS
_A Story of College Water Sports_
Tom, Phil and Sid prove as good at aquatic sports as they are on track,
gridiron and diamond.
_Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York
SEA STORIES FOR BOYS
BY JOHN GABRIEL ROWE
_Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Colored jacket_
_=Price per volume, $1.00 Net=_
[Illustration]
_Every boy who knows the lure of exploring and who loves to rig up huts
and caves and tree-houses to fortify himself against imaginary enemies
will enjoy these books, for they give a vivid chronicle of the doings
and inventions of a group of boys who are shipwrecked and have to make
themselves snug and safe in tropical islands where the dangers are too
real for play._
1. CRUSOE ISLAND
Dick, Alf and Fred find themselves stranded on an unknown island with
the old seaman Josh, their ship destroyed by fire, their friends lost.
2. THE ISLAND TREASURE
With much ingenuity these boys fit themselves into the wild life of the
island they are cast upon in storm.
3. THE MYSTERY OF THE DERELICT
Their ship and companions perished in tempest at sea, the boys are
adrift in a small open boat when they spy a ship. Such a strange
vessel!--no hand guiding it, no soul on board,--a derelict.
4. THE LIGHTSHIP PIRATES
Modern Pirates, with the ferocity of beasts, attack a lightship
crew;--recounting the adventures that befall the survivors of that
crew--and--"RETRIBUTION."
5. THE SECRET OF THE GOLDEN IDOL
Telling of a mutiny, and how two youngsters were unwillingly involved in
one of the weirdest of treasure hunts,--and--"THE GOLDEN FETISH."
_Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
--Printer, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.