The next morning Billy Simpson was out early for a row on the lake
before breakfast. The lake seemed to attract him like a magnet. But he
always went either early in the morning or after dark, and usually
alone, from a morbid shyness about showing his skill.
He dreamed about honors, and he had been betrayed into talking freely
with Brent Gaylong about his hopes and plans. But he could not, he
simply _could not_, show off. Of course, to let them see him row or
paddle would not be showing off. But that was what he called it.
So the skill that he had cultivated on the river near his family’s
country home was not known to the camp or even his own patrol. He was
afraid that if he did anything publicly it might have a look of
crudeness, an amateurish touch, in the eyes of these denizens of the
woods and water. He had made a mistake about good turns and he was
ashamed of himself for being what Brent called a “little” scout. He was
ashamed at having brought a pocketful of beans to show him the way when
he was lost. And a whistle! He was not going to put his foot into it in
the matter of his skill with oar and paddle. Gaylong might come along
and drawl out some criticism of an obvious defect. And Roy Blakeley! How
he dreaded the uproarious banter of that embodiment of merriment. He had
seen what Roy could do in the way of banter. No, not for him....
He paused on his way down to the lake to look at the bulletin-board. He
always found much of interest there. And on this occasion he found
something of preeminent interest. He had heard some talk of it in Patrol
Cabin, but here was the official fact in black and white before him:
The canoeing event for the Mary Temple cup will be held on the lake July
27th. The cup, now held by the First Bridgeboro, N. J., Troop, will be
defended by Conover Bennett, Patrol Leader, Elk Patrol, of that troop.
Troops intending to enter the contest should register in Administration
Shack not later than July 15 th.
So his own troop held this cup. Billy Simpson wondered where the cup
was. He supposed it must be held by the Elk Patrol, since an Elk scout
was to defend it. It was characteristic of him that he felt a bit
chagrined that a contest involving his favorite form of outdoor exercise
should be in preparation without regard to him. Of course his own morbid
shyness was to blame for this, but the announcement hit him in a tender
spot just the same.
One thing that this announcement showed him was that such contests were
usually troop affairs. It was troop against troop and not patrol against
patrol. Conover Bennett represented the troop.
Billy sauntered down to the lake, quite at odds with himself because of
this little jar to his pride, which no one was to blame for but himself.
On the float stood a solitary early riser, one of his own troop.
“H’lo Simpson,” said the latter, cheerily; “some day, huh? Out hunting
for the early worm?”
“I was just going to take a little spin--flop I suppose you’d call it. I
like to--to drift around.”
“I don’t blame you for turning out early, the way that Bronson snores up
in your cabin. Come ahead out and watch me practice, don’t you want to?
I’m the goat, you know.”
“Oh you mean about the cup? You’re Bennett?” Billy asked, rather taken
aback.
“Sure, they’re all going around the lake to make a raid on Scout
Harris--your prepossessor as Blakeley calls him.”
“My predecessor seems to have them all guessing.”
“So this morning’s my chance to practice, and I’m going to keep at it,”
Bennett continued. “I’m off the desserts anyway for the present, and I
guess there’s nothing to that kid’s big announcement. He’s a scream,
that kid is. He’s a regular institution; I don’t know what we’d do
without him; die of ong-wee, I guess. I’d like to know what he’s up to
over there. What do you say we paddle over after the parade starts?”
Billy Simpson did not know whether to go out with Bennett or not. A
foolish, childish pride deterred him. He was sensible enough to conquer
this. Moreover, he did want to see Bennett paddle. Fearful of himself as
he was, he was still just a little jealous.
“I’ve got the hang of this twirl pretty good now,” said Bennett as he
gave a long pull, sending the canoe gliding out into the lake. “Ever
paddle?”
“Only in the dark,” said Billy.
“I’m going to hit it straight for that tree,” said Bennett, “without any
straightening up. Can I do it?”
“Guess so.”
“You lose a lot of headway in rudder work. Keep her straight--straighten
her with each stroke, that’s the secret.”
“How many of you will be in the race?” Simpson asked.
“Only two of us. You see, we’ve got the cup in our troop. The other
troops fight it out among themselves and I have to face the best one of
the bunch. Sort of like the world series, only different. But I can see
what’s coming all right. That red-headed fellow in the Ohio troop, he’s
got me scared. He’s putting them all to sleep one after another. He’s
got _me_ feeling a little drowsy.”
“He has a jerky stroke?” Billy said, respectfully putting his
observation in the form of a question.
“Yes, but he gets there. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, as
Pee-wee Harris says.”
“Do you think he’ll succeed with his new patrol?”
“Who, the kid? Oh, I don’t know; he’s a joke. He’s wished onto us. He’s
here because he’s here, no matter what he does. Didn’t you know him in
Bridgeboro?”
“No, I live across in East Bridgeboro.”
“Oh, I see. Well, here goes for a glide and then breakfast. Now watch.”
Billy Simpson did watch and thought that Bennett paddled skilfully. But
he could not help noticing that his companion breathed rapidly. He
seemed to spend all his effort in the first part of his stroke, and each
pull left him somewhat winded. His stroke seemed remarkably strong and
effective, but it was spasmodic. With each stroke he caught the canoe
and sent it forward again instead of keeping it going at a smooth, even
rate of speed.
The one way would correspond to the action of a one cylinder motor, the
other to a two or four cylinder motor. That is to say, the effect of one
stroke was not merged into the effect of the next. Whatever this kind of
work meant in point of speed, it certainly did not conserve the strength
of the paddler.
“They talk to me about the long stroke,” said Bennett, breathing heavily
and shaking his falling hair up off his forehead; “but I’m as I am,
that’s what I tell them. The best way to do a thing is the way you do
it. Isn’t that right? Some fellows bat best left-handed, huh? Results
are the things that count.”
“I’ll say so,” said Billy.
“If you ever go in for paddling look out your paddle doesn’t get
underneath when you twirl; it just holds you back. Let it get way in
back of you--then drag. See, like this.”
Why didn’t Billy Simpson tell how he could actually paddle, using but
one hand, all the while keeping the canoe in a bee-line course? Why did
he not speak of the back sweep? Of the little trick in the steering
twirl? Well, he did not know them by those names, for one thing. He had
never had any athletic connections and he had no technical talk. But why
on earth didn’t he ask for the paddle for just one little minute and
show what he could do with that wonderful wrist of his? Why didn’t he
loosen up as he had done with Brent Gaylong? Well, fellows did loosen up
with Brent; there was something about him.... Old Doctor Gaylong didn’t
have any particular kind of talent to be afraid of. He did not have a
name to strike terror to the shy amateur. He was just good old Doctor
Gaylong.
And Billy Simpson, he was just Billy Simpson. And that is why he did not
tell that he could paddle right or left, it made no difference. He just
did not know how in the presence of this self-possessed, easy-going
young champion. That was Billy Simpson, all over.
But one thing he did say, and an observant scout might have noticed that
he seemed to ponder before saying it.
“You--in the race--you paddle alone?”
“Oh, I’ll have a fellow to steady the canoe. A fellow hasn’t got any
control unless he has some weight forward, you know.”
“N--no, I suppose not.”
“A bag of sand is good enough, only there’s no life to a bag of sand. I
like to have a pair of eyes looking at me. A girl’s the best thing
really, only they don’t fit into a race. I can pick out any fellow I
want. Some like more weight than others; it’s just a matter of choice,
there’s no rule. I thought of having Pee-wee for my mascot; he yells and
creates a breeze and that’s good, you know.”
“Did you promise him.”
“Oh no, it’s early yet.”
A pause followed. Billy seemed to wrestle with himself. Then he spoke.
“Would you be willing to let me do that?”
“Sure--guess so. Only maybe the kid would be disappointed.”
“If you will, I’d like to.”
“It’s only the kid--” Bennett mused doubtfully.
“I asked you first, didn’t I?”
“All right, it’s a go,” said Bennett.
“Thanks,” said Billy Simpson.
When Bennett got to thinking it over afterward he thought it rather
strange that this new scout, who had taken Pee-wee’s place in the Raven
Patrol, had not seemed disposed to yield this other little post of honor
(if indeed it was that) to the redoubtable mascot. That would have been
more scoutlike. It put Billy in a rather unpleasant light, that ignoring
of Pee-wee, and thinking only of himself. It seemed just a little cold
and selfish.
It was the fate of Billy Simpson, not only to have his light hidden
under a bushel, but to be misunderstood as well. But how could anyone
understand him when he hardly understood himself?...