PURE GRIT.
All other college sports seem to grow dim in comparison with the great
spring race. It is the crowning athletic event of the season. The vast
gathering of people at New London occurs but once a year, and the only
event to be compared with it is the annual football game in New York.
New London for a week before the race is filled with "old grads,"
fathers of Yale men who are interested in boating, college lads, mothers
of students, sisters and sweethearts.
At Eastern Point the Fort Griswold House is thronged with persons of
this sort. The Pequod is overflowing. On the broad piazzas old
classmates meet and talk over former victories and defeats. There they
watch the thronging craft upon the river.
Every one talks boating, whether he knows anything about it or not.
"Willie off the yacht" is there, togged in flannels and making a
desperate struggle to roll in his gait. For a week, at least, he is a
waterman, with the salt flavor in everything he says or does.
And the girls--the girls! They, too, dress in flannels and yachting
caps, and they try to talk knowingly about "strokes," "oars" and "the
crew." But they are charming--every one of them!
Yale and Harvard's quarters are on the left bank near Gale's Ferry. Many
of the "old oars" are permitted to visit the crew. The great coachers
are there. They are regarded with awe and respect, for surely they know
everything there is to know about racing!
The race comes off at five in the afternoon. By midday the town is full,
and every train brings fresh throngs of laughing girls and boisterous
students. All are decorated with the blue or the crimson. Flags are
everywhere, and there are horns in abundance.
At the docks the great Sound steamers are moored, and they are packed
with sight-seers. There are numberless yachts on the river, all
decorated with gay colors and thronged with gay parties.
Within the boathouse, preparations were being made for the race.
Collingwood was giving final instructions to his men. Bastow, an old
coach, was surveying each and every one in the most critical manner
possible.
They were handsome fellows, these men of the crew. Their flesh was brown
and firm, and their eyes were bright. They had broad backs and powerful
shoulders.
Collingwood looked troubled. It was evident there was something on his
mind. Fred Flemming, in a new spring suit, is talking with Popkay, the
little cox. Some wonder that Flemming, who had been dropped for
Merriwell, should be there.
Among the spectators on a certain yacht are Tom Thornton and Willis
Paulding. They are watching for the crew to appear, and, as they watch,
Thornton says something that betrays a knowledge of Flemming's presence
in the boathouse.
"I'll go you two to one that Flem rows after all," he declares. "Do you
dare take me, Paulding?"
"By the way you say that I should think you were betting on a sure
thing, don't yer 'now," drawled Willis.
"I am," asserted Tom. "I have it straight that Merriwell is not in trim,
and will be laid off. Flemming was called to quarters at the last
moment."
"It'll be a corker on Merriwell if he is not allowed to row, by Jawve!"
"Yes; it will give me no end of satisfaction. That fellow put up the
'Grace Darling' job on me, and Diamond helped him to carry it out. I
have been a guy for the whole college ever since Danny Griswold told
down at Morey's how he fooled me. Some day I'll wring that little rat's
neck!"
"They never could have worked the game if Horner hadn't helped them."
"Of course not; but I have cut clear of Horner. We have separated, and I
never give the fellow a look when we meet. Like the other fools, he is
stuck on Merriwell, and he thought he was doing something cunning when
he helped them work the horse on me."
"If Merriwell doesn't row you'll have a chance to get back at them. You
can say you knew it all the time, old chappie."
"Oh, he won't row to-day, and I'll rub it in when I get the
opportunity."
Within the boathouse, at this very moment, Bob Collingwood was saying to
Frank Merriwell:
"You cannot row in the race to-day, Merriwell. You are out of
condition."
Frank turned pale.
"If you say I can't row, that settles it," he said, huskily; "but I
think you are making a mistake. I can row, and I'll prove it, if you
will give me the chance. You shall have no cause to complain of me."
"But I know you are not fit to pull an oar. You have tried to conceal it
from me, but I know you have a felon on your hand. Am I right?"
"You are right," calmly admitted Frank; "but give me a chance, and I
will row for all there is in me, even if it takes my arm off at the
shoulder."
Collingwood looked into Merriwell's eyes, and what he saw there caused
him to say: "All right, my boy, you shall row if we lose by it."
"If we lose the race it will not be my fault," returned Merriwell.
The Harvard cheer broke from a thousand throats as the Harvard crew came
down the stream and arrived first at the start. Yale followed almost
immediately, and two students who were on a trim little yacht craned
their necks and glared at the men in the boat.
Something like a groan escaped the lips of Tom Thornton, and Willis
Paulding declared:
"I don't see Flemming, but Merriwell is there!"
"Yes!" grates Tom; "he has managed to keep his place somehow! Well, that
settles it! Harvard will win!"
Orders were shouted, and then it was seen that both crews were "set."
The men, their brown backs gleaming in the afternoon sunshine, were
reaching forward at arm's length, ready for the first stroke.
A voice was heard commanding them to make ready, then came the cry:
"Go!"
There was a pistol shot, and both boats darted forward. The four-mile
race to the railway bridge piers of New London had begun.
In an instant the great crowd set up a wild cheering, and colors
fluttered everywhere. Away went the boats, side by side. Harvard's style
of rowing had changed completely from that of the previous year, when
her boat had jumped at every stroke. Now her crew bent with a long
sweep that sent the boat through the water with a steady motion.
Yale used a shorter and more snappy stroke. The men seemed to have more
life at the start, but it was the kind of a stroke that was sure to pump
away their energy to a great extent in a long race.
But Collingwood was crafty. He knew that it would be an easy thing to
take the life out of his men by steep work at the beginning, and he
doubted if the advantage thus gained could be held. To a certain extent,
he regulated Yale's speed by that of its rival.
In his heart Collingwood feared Harvard's new style of rowing. He was
not willing to acknowledge that anything English could be superior to
anything American, and yet he remembered how the freshmen of
'Umpty-eight, coached by Merriwell, had adopted something like the
Oxford stroke, and had won the race from the sophomores at Lake
Saltonstall. He also remembered Merriwell's hand, and he feared the
fellow must give out before the finish.
If Yale could hold her own till near the end Collingwood hoped to win by
a spurt. Outside of Merriwell, he felt that the crew was in perfect
condition. He was sure the men were superior to those in the Harvard
boat.
Harvard begins to gain. That strong, steady stroke is telling. It looks
as if the crimson lads were going to pull away from the blue with ease.
Collingwood does not allow himself to get excited in the least. He keeps
his men steadily at work, husbanding their strength as far as possible.
"'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! Harvard! Harvard!" roared the crowd.
Frank Merriwell was working perfectly with the rest, and no one could
imagine from his appearance that every stroke seemed to drive a keen
knife from his wrist to his elbow. His face was very pale, but that was
all.
At the end of the first mile Harvard was two lengths in advance, and
seemed to be gaining. Still Yale worked steadily, showing no signs of
excitement or alarm.
The crowds on the yachts were waving hats and handkerchiefs and flags.
They cheered and yelled and hooted like human beings gone mad. It was a
scene of the wildest excitement.
It had become plain to all, despite the fact that Harvard had a lead,
that the race was to be a stern one. Yale was out to win, if such a
thing "lay in the wood."
When the second mile was passed Harvard was still another length in
advance. But Yale was beginning to work up steadily, forcing Harvard to
a more desperate struggle to hold her advantage.
When the two and a half mile flag was passed it was seen that Yale had
begun to creep up. Still she was not dangerous. Her friends were
encouraged, however, and the sound all Yale men love--the Yale
yell--could be heard above the roaring of the crowd.
That sound seemed to put fresh life and heart into the Yale crew. At the
beginning of the last mile Harvard was scarcely two lengths in advance.
It was a wonderful race. The excitement was at the highest pitch.
The Harvard crew, although it had started out so beautifully, had not
the stamina to endure the strain. No. 3 was pulling out of the boat,
while No. 5 showed signs of distress.
Yale begins to spurt. Her men are working like machinery. No one could
dream that one of them was suffering the tortures of a being on the
rack, and still such was the truth.
A hundred times it seemed to Frank Merriwell that he must give out; a
hundred times he set his teeth and vowed that he would die before he
would weaken. No one could know the almost superhuman courage and
fortitude which enabled him to keep up and continue his work in the
proper manner. Those who watched the crew closely fancied that he worked
with the utmost ease, for all of the long pull.
Collingwood had forgotten Merriwell's felon. He was reckoning on the
final spurt to bring "Old Eli" to the front. Harder and harder he worked
his men.
Now the uproar along the river was deafening. The prow of the Yale boat
was at Harvard's stern--and then Yale began to creep along by Harvard's
side.
No. 7 of the Harvard crew reeled on his seat. Then he braced up and went
at it again. But he was not in stroke. The faces of both crews were set.
They were like gladiators battling for their very lives.
In the Yale boat was one who seemed to be growing blind and numb. In his
heart he was praying for strength as earnestly as he would have prayed
for the salvation of his soul. Only a few moments more--he must hold
out.
The boats were side by side, and the excitement was simply
indescribable. Such a finish was unprecedented. It was a race to be
remembered for all years to come--to be spoken of with pride and
discussed with wonder.
Then came the moment when Collingwood drove his men for all there was in
them. He was pitiless, and Yale shot into the lead.
The line was crossed. Then cannons boomed and whistles shrieked. But in
the Yale boat was one whose ears were deaf to all this tumult of sound.
Frank Merriwell had fallen in the bottom of the boat in a dead faint.
But Yale--Yale had won!