FOR THE HONOR OF THE TRIBE
All of Woodcraft who could get afloat were on the water, and those not
so fortunate were ranged on points of vantage along the pier and on
the shore. Dr. and Mother Merriam, with some of the guests of the
camp, parents of the boys in for the annual field day, occupied the
end of the pier, which commanded the whole course and was directly on
the finish line. Among the most interested of the onlookers were Mr.
Harrison and Mr. Upton, who had arrived that morning, taking their
sons by surprise.
The shore events had been run off in the forenoon, with honors well
distributed. The Algonquins, under Chief Seaforth, had won the rifle
match. Chief Woodhull had scored heavily for the Delawares by winning
the trail finding contest, the stalking event and the mile
cross-country "hike" without compass or trail. The relay race, high
and broad jumps had gone to the Hurons, while the Senecas had taken
the hundred yard and two hundred and twenty yard dashes. The points
for the best individual work during the summer in the various branches
of nature study had been awarded, and the total score in the contest
between the two wigwams for the deer's head offered for the highest
total was Wigwam No. 1--1,460 points; Wigwam No. 2--1,450 points.
For tribal honors the Delawares had a safe margin, but the
championship banner would go to the winning tribe in the successful
wigwam. Excitement was at fever pitch, for on the outcome of the
afternoon events hung the honors of the whole season. It was generally
conceded that the Hurons would take the swimming events handily,
unless the Delawares developed a dark horse. The Senecas were strong
in the canoe work, and they vowed that if the Hurons tied the score
with the swimming events they would win the canoe events.
The swimming races were called first. Before the first event Chief
Woodhull called the Delawares together. "I haven't much to say," he
said as he looked into the eager faces of his tribe, "only this: I
expect every Delaware to do his best, not for his personal glory, but
for the honor of his tribe and the honor of his wigwam. It is a great
thing to win for yourself, but it is a greater thing to win for your
fellows. When you reach the point where it seems as if you hadn't
another ounce left just remember that the loss is not yours alone, but
of the tribe who are pinning their faith to you. Another thing; fight
for second and third places just as hard as for first. It's the small
points that are going to win that banner, and it's up to you
individually to get every point you can. And," he added with a smile,
"don't forget to cheer the other fellows when they win. If we must
lose let's be good losers, but--_don't lose!_ That's all."
The conditions were perfect for the afternoon's sport. The lake lay
like a huge mirror, not a ripple breaking its glassy surface.
Clustered about the finish line were the camp canoes and boats and
several launches filled with guests from the hotels at the other end
of the lake. Several batteaux filled with lumber-jacks from the Durant
camp lined the course.
"Gee, ain't it great?" said Tug Benson as he and Walter paddled out
to the raft from which the swimming races were to start.
"You bet!" replied Walter enthusiastically. "How you feeling?"
"Fine and dandy!" responded Tug. "I'm goin' to take that hundred yards
if I never swim another stroke!"
"Wish I felt as sure of a place in my event," said Walter.
"Look a-here, you're goin' to get more than place--you're goin' to win
that event! You've got to! What do you s'pose I've been coachin' you
for all summer?" said Tug savagely as he glared at his companion.
They were to the raft by this time and as they hopped out and made
their canoe fast they heard the starter announcing the first event,
which was the hundred yard race. In all events for the afternoon first
would count ten points, second five points and third three points.
There were eight entries for this event, three Hurons, two Delawares,
two Senecas and one Algonquin.
"Are you ready?" Bang! There was one splash as the eight boys took
the water. At the very first Tug took the lead. The distance was too
short to take any chances. He was using the crawl stroke, and his
powerful muscles drove him through the water like a fish. But he had
need of every bit of strength and skill he possessed. Two of the
Hurons were pressing him close, and ten yards from the finish one of
them forged up until the two boys were neck and neck. Tug glanced
ahead to locate the finish line, and gulped his lungs full of air.
Then, burying his face, he tore through the water like some strange
amphibian, putting every last ounce of reserve strength into a supreme
effort.
Bang! It was the finish gun, and the wild whoop of the Delawares told
him he had won, but he had hardly filled his strained lungs when the
second and third guns told him by how narrow a margin he had snatched
the victory.
"Two points to the good, anyway," he said grimly as Woodhull helped
him into a boat.
This made the wigwam score 1,470 to 1,458 and the Delawares and
Algonquins whooped deliriously. But their triumph was short lived.
The two hundred and twenty yard event gave the Hurons first and second
and the Senecas third. It was now the turn of the Hurons and Senecas
to break loose, and they made the most of it, for this gave Wigwam No.
2 a lead of six points.
"It's up to you now," growled Tug in Walter's ear as they stood side
by side awaiting the starting gun in the quarter mile event. "I
haven't a look-in, for that hundred killed me. But I'm goin' to set
the pace for the first half, and you stick right to me. Don't you pay
any attention to the rest of 'em, but stick right to me. When I give
the word you dig out, and win. Remember, this is no sprintin' match!"
The starting gun banged. When Walter had shaken the water from his
eyes and looked around he found Tug at his side, swimming easily with
a powerful overhand stroke. Off to the right two of the Hurons were
using the crawl and were rapidly forging ahead. Already they had a
lead that gave Walter a panicky feeling. Tug looked at him and
grinned. "Water's fine," he grunted, for all the world as if this was
nothing more than a pleasure swim. "Get your back into that stroke."
Tug was still swimming easily, but he was putting more power into his
strokes. Walter followed his example and kept neck and neck with him.
They were now the last of the field. The sprint of the two Hurons had
given them a good lead, and this had had its effect on the other
swimmers, all of whom were putting forth every effort to overhaul the
leaders. Walter found that it took every bit of will power he
possessed not to do the same. The pace was beginning to tell on those
in front, but Tug never varied his strong easy stroke and presently
Walter noticed that they were slowly but surely closing up the gap
between them and the nearest competitors.
They had now covered a third of the course and the leaders were still
a long way ahead. Would Tug never hit it up? What was he waiting so
long for? Perhaps he was, as he had said, "all in," and couldn't go
any faster. Ought he to stay back as Tug had told him to? If he should
lose out for place the blame would be laid to him, not to Tug. Ha! Tug
had quickened the stroke a bit! It was not much, but there was a
perceptible gain with each swing of the arms and kick of the legs.
The half-way mark, and still Tug did not give the word. What was the
matter with him? He glanced at him anxiously, but the grin on that
astute young gentleman's face revealed nothing, certainly not anxiety.
Two or three of the swimmers had begun to splash badly, notably the
two Hurons in the lead. Walter had his second wind, and he found that
he was holding Tug with less effort than at first. He could hear the
shrill yells of the Hurons and Senecas at the finish line as they
urged on their braves, and there was an unmistakable note of triumph
in every yell. It gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of his
stomach.
"Now go!" screamed a voice almost in his ear. Dimly he realized that
Tug had given him the word. Quickening his stroke he put in every
ounce of reserve strength, and at once the result began to show. One
after another he overtook and passed the other swimmers until there
was only one between him and the finish line. The two Hurons who had
led so long were splashing in manifest distress. They were behind him
now, their bolt shot, but still struggling gamely. But the swimmer
ahead was a Huron who had come up strongly in the last quarter.
The pace was beginning to tell. Every muscle in his body ached, and
his straining lungs seemed to gasp in no air at all. He was neck and
neck with the leader now, but his tortured muscles seemed on the point
of refusing to act altogether. If he could only rest them just a
second! Ha, what was that? "Whoop! Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Whoop!
Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Whoop! Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Upton!"
It was the long rolling yell of the Delawares. It seemed to put new
life into him. They were calling on him now for the honor of the
tribe! He was almost there. Could he make it? He would make it! He
gulped his lungs full of air, buried his face in the water and swung
into the crawl, and then it seemed to him that his movements were
wholly automatic. "For the honor of the tribe. For the honor of the
tribe. For the honor of the tribe." Over and over his brain hammered
that one phrase.
The bang of the finish gun crashed into it, but for a minute he did
not sense what it meant. "For the honor of the tribe," he murmured,
weakly paddling the water with his hands.
"And the honor of the boy!" cried a hearty voice, as strong hands
caught the slack of his jersey and pulled him into a boat.
He looked up in a daze into the face of Woodhull. "Did I win?" he
gasped.
"You sure did!" was the prompt response.
"No, I didn't; Tug did it," muttered Walter to himself as he saw his
coach wearily finish at the tail end.
Second place had gone to the Hurons and third to the Algonquins. The
score now stood Wigwam No. 1--1,483; Wigwam No. 2--1,481, and the
excitement of the visitors was hardly less than that of the tribes as
they waited for the canoe events.
The fours were called first. There were four entries, one crew from
each tribe, four brawny boys in each canoe, captained by the four
chiefs. The distance was half a mile with a turn, start and finish
being opposite the pier. A pretty sight they made as they lined up
for the start, each boy on one knee, leaning well over the side of the
canoe, blade poised just over the water at his utmost reach.
Almost with the flash of the gun the sixteen blades hit the water and,
amid a wild tumult of yells, the canoes shot away like greyhounds from
a leash.
"Did you get on to that start of the Hurons--one long stroke, then
five short ones and then the regular long stroke!" yelled Billy Buxby,
whose sharp eyes seldom missed anything new.
As a matter of fact this little trick had given the Hurons the best of
the start, the quick short strokes getting their boat under full
headway before the others. But their advantage was short-lived, and it
could be seen that as the turning buoys were approached they were
last.
"Wonder if they'll spring something new on the turn," muttered Billy,
leaning forward until he threatened to upset his canoe. "Ah, I thought
so!"
The Delawares had reached the turn first with the Senecas a close
second and the Algonquins third, but the leaders had not fairly
straightened out for home when the Hurons turned their buoy as if on a
pivot and actually had the lead.
In silence the spectators watched the flashing blades draw up the
course. It was anybody's race, a "heart-breaker," as Spud Ely
expressed it. Like clockwork the blades rose and fell. The Algonquins
were using a long body swing. The Senecas swung their shoulders only,
and their stroke was shorter and faster. The Hurons had dropped a
little behind, but between the three leaders there was little to
choose.
"It's quite primeval, isn't it?" said Mr. Upton as he returned the
binoculars which Mr. Harrison had loaned him.
"That just expresses it," replied the latter as pandemonium broke
loose in shrill yells from the four tribes urging on their crews. "The
forest setting, the Indian craft--it's all like a picture out of early
history."
The voices of the captains could now be heard calling for the final
spurt. The stroke in all four boats became terrific as, with heads
bent, hanging far over the sides, the paddlers drove their blades
through the water, recovered and drove them again, almost faster than
the eye could follow. Ten yards from the finish the Senecas, paddling
in perfect form, seemed fairly to lift their boat from the water. It
was magnificent, and as they shot over the line, winners by a scant
quarter length, all four tribes joined in giving them the Woodcraft
yell.
The Algonquins were second, beating the Delawares by a scant half
length. The score was tied.
The single event was next, and in this both Walter and Hal Harrison
were entered. It was an eighth of a mile straight away. This event was
confined to the younger boys, and Walter felt that he had an even
chance for place, though Tobey of the Hurons was generally picked to
win. Harrison was a dark horse. No one knew much about his paddling
save his chief, who had coached him in private, and was very chary of
his opinion to anxious inquirers.
"I'm going to beat you, Walt," said Hal, as they paddled down to the
starting line.
"Not if I can help it," replied Walter with a good-natured laugh,
"but if I'm going to be beaten there is no one I should rather have
win than you, Hal. But the Delawares need those points, and I'm going
to get 'em if I can."
It was Hal's first race, his novice event, and he was plainly nervous
at the start, so that he got away poorly. But he soon recovered and
settled down to his work in a way that brought a smile of satisfaction
to the lips of Chief Avery watching from the finish line.
Hal had not told his father that he was entered for any of the events.
Mr. Harrison had been talking with Dr. Merriam when the race was
called, and had paid no attention to the boys going down to the start.
It was not until the race was half over that he focussed his glasses
on the canoes.
"Bless me, that looks like my boy out there!" he exclaimed, wiping his
glasses to be sure that he saw clearly. Then to the delight of the
spectators the man of millions showed that he was wholly human after
all. He whooped and shouted like an overgrown boy. "Come on, Hal! Come
on, boy!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "He's winning! He's
winning! Come on, Hal! Hit her up! Hit her up!" And all the time he
was pounding the man in front of him, quite oblivious of the fact that
it was Dr. Merriam himself.
Hal was hitting it up. After the first few minutes of dumb surprise
the Senecas had rallied to the support of their new champion, and as
the boy heard his name over and over again at the end of the Seneca
yell he ground his teeth and redoubled his efforts. Little by little
he forged ahead.
Walter was putting up a game struggle, but he found that his grueling
swim earlier in the afternoon was telling now, and in spite of all he
could do open water was showing between his canoe and Hal's. "I'll get
second, anyway," he muttered, and then as before the old slogan, "For
the honor of the tribe. For the honor of the tribe," began hammering
in his brain.
It was Hal's race, with Walter second, Buxby third, and Tobey, the
expected winner, a poor fourth. Wigwam No. 2 was two points to the
good.
The suspense had become almost unbearable as the last event for the
afternoon was called. This was a "pack and carry" race, a novelty to
most of the spectators, and in some respects the most interesting of
all. Four canoes were placed side by side on the ground in front of
headquarters. Beside each was spread a shelter tent, blankets and
cooking outfit. The four chiefs took their places, each beside one of
the outfits. At the signal gun each began to pack his outfit. As soon
as he had finished he picked up his canoe, inverted it over his head
and carried it to the lake. Returning for his pack he placed it in his
canoe, paddled out around a buoy, back to shore, and carried canoe and
pack to the starting point.
Woodhull won handily, but big Bob Seaforth, who got a good start and
was counted on for second at least, broke a paddle and was put
hopelessly out of it. This gave the Senecas and Hurons second and
third respectively. The score was once more tied.
It was incredible! Never in the history of the camp had there been
anything like it. The field sports over and the championship
undecided! And now it hung on the outcome of a little woodcraft test
that hitherto had been simply a pleasant part of the ceremony of
lighting the last camp-fire--the test of the fire sticks. It was
agreed that the winner should not only have the usual honor of
lighting the fire, but that he should score five points for his tribe
and wigwam, and that second and third should not count.
Evening mess was a hurried affair. There was too much excitement for
eating. Promptly at eight o'clock Dr. Merriam appeared with the other
members of the camp force and a few guests who had remained, and the
tribes gathered in a circle around the huge pile of fire-wood in front
of headquarters. Each chief selected five of his followers to
represent his tribe. These squatted in four groups with their fire
sticks before them on the ground. Behind each group stood an umpire to
announce the first bona fide flame.
The silence was almost painful as Dr. Merriam raised his arm for the
starting shot. There was a momentary stir as the boys hastily reached
for their sticks, and then no sound save an occasional long breath and
the whirr of the fire drills. Twenty seconds, twenty-five, thirty,
thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three--"Buxby's fire!" cried a voice
sharply, and then a mighty yell arose from the Delawares and
Algonquins as Billy leaped forward and thrust his tiny blaze into the
tinder of the dark pile before him. Wigwam No. 1 had won!