THE PLOTTERS REFUSE TO QUIT.
One thing both Harvard and Yale could agree on. There couldn’t have been
a better day for the race. The water at the mouth of the Thames never
reaches the degree of mirrorlike smoothness that exists nearly always at
Poughkeepsie, where the other great college boat race is rowed each
year; but the oarsmen get used to the little chop of the water that is
never entirely absent, and don’t mind it at all.
The day was warm, but not excessively so, and little fleecy clouds,
chasing themselves across the blue sky, showed that the wind was a light
one, quartering over the river from the northwest. That gave the crew
that won the toss, and elected to row the last mile of the race under
the shelter of the bank of the shore by choosing the westerly course, a
slight advantage. Harvard won the toss, and took that course for the two
eight-oared races, leaving it to Yale for the four, but the advantage
was too slight to make it at all likely that it would be a decisive
factor in the race itself.
The Thames is comparatively narrow, for an American river, at New
London, but there is plenty of room for all the yachts that want to take
up positions along the course. Now a double line of vessels, large and
small, white and black, all gayly decked out with lines of flags, and
bearing, as a rule, a great banner between their masts, to show whether
their owners loved best the blue of Yale or the crimson of Harvard, was
stretched along the river from the finishing point, near Gale’s Ferry,
down to the navy yard, two miles away. There was no room for yachts at
the finish itself, except on the outside, or eastern side of the course,
but they were packed there in glorious array. The big white steam yacht
that carried the judges of the finish was anchored directly opposite the
finishing line itself, which was marked by two flags, and on board of
her were the men who were to give the word for firing the guns that
marked the finish, first for the winners, then for the losers.
Up and down the course, racing excitedly from one point to another, went
the referee’s boat, with Billy Meikleham, the veteran Columbia oarsman,
who had for years been the arbiter of all possible disputes between Yale
and Harvard crews, standing in the bow with his megaphone, and stopping
at Gale’s Ferry and Red Top to assure himself that all was well with the
two crews, and that they were ready for the great race.
In New London, every train was adding to the crowds that surged through
all the streets near the station. Pretty girls in abundance flaunted the
crimson or the blue. Bill Brady, surveying them as he looked for his own
party, decided that all the prettiest ones wore the blue, as was only
proper, in his eyes. Bowen, the Harvard baseball captain, who bore no
ill-feeling for the defeat of his team, and had come up to see the race,
disagreed with Brady, but Angell, the former Michigan runner, who, after
a year at Yale, was going back to finish his course at Michigan, said he
was impartial now, and voted for the Yale girls.
The great problem of the early part of the day was getting something to
eat. New London, if you visit it at an off season, when there isn’t a
boat race on, will entertain you royally. The hotels will strike you as
excellent, the food as both cheap and plentiful. But it is different on
boat-race day. Then, at the hotels, they establish a line for the dining
room early in the morning, and people wait for an hour or two before
they can get in at all. However, no one minds minor privations of that
sort.
Down by the station, crowded all day, as parties of friends united or
came all together by the arriving trains, all eyes turned first to the
two great observation trains. One of the things that makes the New
London course the finest in the world for a boat race, is the fact that
there is a railroad on each side of the river, so that two trains at
once can be drawn along to provide moving grand stands for the
spectators, who can thus see every stroke that is pulled in the race.
There are about forty cars on each train, flat freight cars, with a
section of seats, like those in the bleachers of a baseball field, built
on each, and a canvas awning over the seats to protect the spectators
from sun and rain, if the weather man is unkind enough to let it rain on
boat-race day, which, to do him full justice, he very seldom is.
Presently these trains, with an engine at each end of them, would pull
out, loaded to their utmost capacity with pretty girls and excited men,
a mass of waving color, riotous in the bright sunlight, with cheers
rocking them from end to end. But that was to come later. In the morning
they simply served as reminders of the great race that was to come.
But it wasn’t all joy in New London. To most of those who had seen or
heard of it, the sinking of the _Marina_ was a mysterious incident, to
be discussed for a few minutes, and then forgotten. But to Svenson,
Barrows, and their companions it was a stunning blow, almost crushing in
its effect, and utterly inexplicable. They had no difficulty in making
their escape from the sinking vessel, and, safe, but bewildered and
furious, had fore-gathered some time later at an obscure and dirty
saloon in a low part of the town.
“That’s that devil Phillips,” said Barnes, with a certain gloomy
satisfaction. “I told you you were making a fool of yourself, Barrows.
He’s been too clever for you.”
Svenson, who had been drinking as fast as his glass could be
replenished, was in a furious rage.
“What about my boat?” he cried furiously. “It will cost a thousand
dollars to make her seaworthy again. And there’s no insurance.”
“Never mind your boat,” said Barrows. “We’ll clean up enough to fix her
up, and we’ll divide the cost equally.”
“Clean up nothing,” said Barnes sarcastically. “You’re skunked, Barrows.
Your scheme is knocked into a cocked hat. Don’t you know enough to know
when you’re beaten?”
“Beaten?” cried Barrows. “I guess not. We didn’t need the _Marina_ to
put that through. We’ll be all right, I tell you. The plan goes through
without any change at all. Everything will work all right. There’s no
way they can have got on to us. It’s a bad thing that Phillips, if he
was the one, got away, and worse that he sank the _Marina_, if he did.
And I suppose he must have. But there’s no reason why we should curl up
and quit like a lot of whipped curs.”
“Have it your own way,” said Barnes, with a sneer. “All I know is that
old Bill Harding expected something of this very sort to happen. He’s a
wise guy, Bill. He’s well out of this, and he saw that early in the
game.”
“Do you seriously think there’s a chance to put it through still?” asked
the trembling Dennison, who had joined them in the saloon. “I thought it
was all up when I heard you had lost the _Marina_.”
“Why should it be?” asked Barrows, with a curse. “We’ve still got the
motor boats, haven’t we? I’ll take one of them, Svenson another, and
Bascom, the wireless man, the third. Bascom’s all right. He’s down,
watching the boats now. I guess we can make that race come out just
about as we want, even now.”
“Who wants to quit?” snarled Svenson. “I’ve got to put this through now,
or I’ll never get the money for my boat. I don’t suppose any of you
cheap skates are going to make that up to me unless I do it for myself.
And you’ve forgotten the other thing, too, Barrows.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said Barrows. “But I’m the only one who can work
that. Barnes, I thought you had some nerve. I didn’t think you had a
yellow streak big enough to make you quit at the first sign of trouble.
That’s not the way you used to work for Harding.”
“I’m no quitter,” said Barnes, flushing. “You’re up against a cold deal
here, but I’ll stand in with you to the finish. What do you want me to
do?”
“Take one of the motor boats,” said Barrows. “You know how to work that
end of it. That will leave me free in case anything goes wrong with that
plan.”
“All right,” said Barnes. “Count me in. Are you going to monkey with the
two early races—the freshman and the four, or will you stick to the big
race?”
“Just the big race,” said Barrows, looking satisfied.
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