WON IN THE LAST STROKES.
Jim Phillips, in the light of the surprising discovery of the loaded
keels of the two shells, had not forgotten what he had seen on the
marked map. As he went down the river before the four-oared race, which
was to start at the bridge, he looked eagerly at the points along the
course that had been indicated on the map, but he could see nothing to
arouse suspicion. However, that did not fully convince him that they had
drawn all the teeth of the plotters by changing the shells in which the
race was to be rowed. It was unlikely that there would be any attempt to
interfere with the minor races—Barrows and his crowd would, undoubtedly,
confine themselves to the varsity contest.
The three Yale coaches, with Jim Phillips and Bill Brady as specially
invited guests, were in the _Elihu Yale_ to watch the race between the
four-oared shells, following behind the referee’s boat, so as not to
interfere in any way with the oarsmen. The four, though it had been
under the general supervision of Dick Merriwell, like all the other
crews, had been the especial charge of Hargreaves, who was very proud of
the quartet he had trained, and fully confident of their ability to beat
the Harvard crew, although the latter had been a favorite up to the very
hour of the race, being the same crew that had established a new record
for two miles for four-oared crews the year before.
At the sound of the referee’s pistol, Harvard got away slightly in the
lead, rowing fast and at a high stroke. But Hargreaves had coached his
men for just such a start. He was not afraid of any lead Harvard got in
the first mile, and the Yale four, rowing in perfect form, was content
to keep its own pace and let Harvard open up clear water before the
first flags were reached. The Harvard enthusiasts in the two trains were
wild with delight, for it looked like an easy victory for Harvard. But,
at the mile flags, the aspect of the race began to change. The Harvard
crew was rowing as well as ever, but Yale began rapidly to overhaul it,
and soon the twinkling space of clear water was wiped out. Inch by inch,
then, Yale crept up, and a quarter of a mile from the finish there was a
tremendous Yale cheer as the prow of the Yale shell showed in front for
the first time in the race.
It was hammer and tongs then to the finish, but Yale had the pace of the
Harvard boat, and, when the first gun boomed out, it was as Yale crossed
the line, winner of a desperate race by a margin of less than two
seconds—half a length or less. It wasn’t much, but it was a victory.
First blood for Yale, and a good omen for the bigger race later on.
“Good work!” said Merriwell, as the coaching launch swept up alongside
the tired oarsmen, who were splashing each other and looking lovingly at
the shirts their friendly rivals had tossed them. “That’s the idea—show
the varsity how to win.”
But there was little time for talk. The four-oared crews got their
breath, then paddled over to the eastern shore and swung up together, to
reach the finish of the course and see how the freshmen fared. And the
freshmen eight-oared crews, ready for their own two-mile race, were
awaiting the referee’s gun. It came, and the race began.
But this wasn’t a race very long. Harvard started well enough, and was
always game, but the Yale freshmen were a remarkable crew, and they won
as they pleased, with ten lengths of open water behind them and before
the Harvard crew at the finish.
Yale’s enthusiasm was unlimited. Here was the best of starts. Now every
Yale rooter on the trains was shouting for a clean sweep of the river,
for the winning of all three races. It had been done before—why
shouldn’t Dick Merriwell’s crews repeat the feat?
Harvard was grimly determined. True, two races were gone beyond recall,
but the biggest one of all remained. If the big varsity crew could win,
the defeats in the minor races would be forgotten. Yale was welcome to
them—if only Harvard’s crimson waved triumphant at the end of the
greatest contest of all.
Jim Phillips was very thoughtful as the launch went back to quarters
after the freshman race. The varsity oarsmen, who were elated by the
result of the first two races, were all ready now for their own test.
They were superbly confident of their ability to finish the task the
others had begun so well. But Jim himself was consumed by anxiety. He
could not believe that that map had had no sinister meaning. And Barrows
had impressed him as a man not likely, if care could prevent accident,
to leave anything to chance.
Finally he told Dick Merriwell of the map.
“I’ve decided what to do,” he said. “Brady’s people have a hydroplane
here that can make thirty-five miles an hour easily, and I know enough
about that sort of boat to run it. It’s impossible to tell which of
those marked places is the danger spot, but I should say the one nearest
the finish. They won’t know until late in the race that their magnet
coil won’t work. Now, if I have that hydroplane, I can run right along
behind or level with the race, and make sure that there’s no mischief
afoot. How does that strike you?”
“It’s a good plan,” said Dick. “But be careful. Don’t take any more wild
chances. Remember that I’d rather lose this race and every other that
I’m ever going to be interested in, than see anything happen to you.”
“I’m safe enough,” said Jim, with a laugh. “But I’ll be careful, too.
You needn’t worry.”
The hydroplane was down the river, near the starting point, and Jim went
immediately to get aboard, the _Elihu Yale_ carrying him down. It was
five o’clock, and in an hour the race would begin. So Jim felt there was
no time to lose. But, to get a last look, he tore up the course in the
hydroplane, startling every one by the swift rush of the tiny boat with
the huge engine, which skimmed along, half out of the water, and kicking
up a tremendous wash.
Coming back, he slowed down, and looked most carefully for any signs of
danger at the third point marked on the map, near Red Top. But there was
none. Further down he saw the three motor boats that had belonged to the
_Marina_, and recognized Svenson and Barnes with a chuckle. They, at
least, were harmless, he reflected, no matter what they might think of
their power to affect the outcome of the race. It was just as well they
didn’t know, he decided, that their plan had been defeated.
When he returned to the starting point, the two crews were already
there, climbing gingerly out of the coaching launches and into the frail
shells that were to carry them in the race. Getting aboard a racing
shell from a launch is a delicate affair, but these men were all
practiced in the art, and when the referee’s boat finally steamed into
position behind the stake boats, the two crews were already there,
aligned for the start, with a man in each stake boat, holding the stern
of the shell before him.
Jim had to forego much of a sight of the start. He had to edge far over
to the eastern shore with his noisy, tempestuous little craft, and the
yachts were in his way. But, as he hung there, below the railroad
bridge, he heard the sharp crack of the pistol, then a mighty roar from
the train on the bridge above him, and he knew that they were off.
Swiftly, keeping well ahead of the oarsmen, but going not more than half
speed, even so, to reduce the wash, Jim shot his hydroplane to the mile
mark, and looked to see if there was any explanation there of the mark
on the map. There was none. He would look at the course here, and he
edged over as near as he could. He could not suppress a cry of joy at
what he saw. The two racing shells were speeding toward him, and Yale
led.
Yale was ahead by nearly a quarter of a length—a great margin in such a
race. On the other side of the course he could see one of the _Marina’s_
motor boats, but he did not recognize its passenger. All the same, he
laughed.
“He’s on the wrong side of the course,” he reflected. “He’s nearer to
Harvard.”
The man in the motor boat stood up to get a better view, and then Jim,
who was equipped with a powerful glass, saw him bend over and throw a
switch. There was not the slightest effect on the progress of either of
the shells, and the man in the motor boat, looking astonished and
distressed, stood up again. Jim laughed again, but he could not wait.
Again he sped up ahead of the shells, and, at the navy yard, Yale still
led by about the same margin as at the mile. It was still a race that
either crew might win. They had settled down to a steady pace now,
rowing about thirty-four strokes to the minute, and Jim knew, as well as
the oarsmen themselves, that the crucial phase of the struggle had not
yet arrived.
They were waiting for the last mile, in which, when crews that are so
evenly matched as were these two, met, the issue is nearly always
decided. Yale had the advantage, for she was ahead, and so could wait
for Harvard to challenge her lead. All the blue needed for a victory was
to hold her own. Now, when the final test came, it was for Yale to meet
each added Harvard stroke, to come back with an extra pound of power for
every one that Harvard applied, and so maintain her slender lead.
Once they were past the navy yard, and halfway through the race, Jim
called sharply to the mechanic who was behind him.
“Take the wheel, now,” he said. “Keep her as I tell you. I don’t know
what I may have to do, but I want to be ready for anything that comes
along.”
Barrows’ last chance to interfere with the race would soon be at hand,
as Jim well knew. Two of the places marked on the map had been passed,
but the third remained, and Jim felt that there matters would be
decided. He was willing to see Harvard win fairly, though it would
disappoint him. But he was not going, if there was any way in which he
could prevent it, to allow a crooked scheme to destroy Yale’s chances.
Now the red buildings of Red Top showed close before him, and the yachts
were growing more numerous as the finish line approached. He kept his
eyes wide open, and at last he saw what he was looking for. In front of
him, but nearer the course than he was himself, was a small boat, an
ordinary launch, such as can be cheaply hired at any seashore resort.
And in the launch, shading his eyes as he stood up and peered eagerly
down the course, was Barrows.
“Get as close as you can to that launch,” Jim commanded. And the
hydroplane, going very slowly now, crept up. The racing boats were still
a quarter of a mile away. Jim could not be sure, but it looked as if
Yale still led—as if Harvard had not yet begun her final attempt to cut
down that tiny lead.
Jim, studying Barrows closely, saw him looking in surprise and anger at
the crews that were approaching. Then the gambler’s face lighted up, and
Jim, following his gaze, saw the third of the _Marina’s_ motor boats,
containing Svenson, behind him. He had missed her as he came up the
river.
Svenson bent down and threw his switch. But, of course, there was no
effect on the Yale crew. Barrows threw up his hands with a gesture of
anger, then dropped swiftly below the gunwale of his launch. Jim could
not see what he was doing, but he stood up in his own frail craft, tense
and poised for anything that might be needful.
And then, just as the two shells were abreast of him, Barrows lifted
something over the side of the craft and dropped it into the water.
Like a flash, at Jim’s sharp order, the hydroplane shot forward twenty
yards, then stopped, as Jim dived over and came upon the thing that
Barrows had launched toward the Yale crew. Under the water, he turned
its course, and a moment later saw it strike, harmlessly, against the
side of the launch whence it had started. It was a miniature torpedo,
containing no explosive, and run and steered by clockwork. Jim had seen
them before, used in shipyards as models. He knew how to stop the
mechanism, and in a moment he had it in the hydroplane, and was tearing
up to the finish to see the result of the race.
It was a magnificent drive that Harvard made. But Yale met every attempt
to rob her of her hard-won lead, and, in time that was a new record for
the course, Yale shot over the line a winner, less than two seconds
before the second gun boomed for the Harvard crew, beaten, but game to
the end, after one of the greatest races ever rowed.
“Here was Barrows’ last card,” said Jim, after the race, when every one
was back at Gale’s Ferry. “This thing is a model torpedo. It’s worked by
clockwork, and it would have made an awful mess of our shell. It
wouldn’t have damaged it much, but it would have thrown the men off
their stroke, and would certainly have cost us the race.”
So the scheme that Barrows had evolved was spoiled. Svenson lost his
boat; Dennison and Barrows lost the money they had put up, and they had,
moreover, to admit that Harding had been right.
As for Jim, among those who learned of the way in which he had saved
Yale from defeat, he was more popular than ever. And one of those most
hearty in his congratulations was Neilson, the Harvard coach, who took
defeat splendidly, and simply said he hoped for better luck the next
time the crews met.
Dick Merriwell, on his return to New Haven with the team, hinted slyly
that there would be one more baseball game to conclude the season. The
men of the team were curious, and asked who the game was to be played
with, but Dick was noncommittal and merely said to them:
“Wait!”
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