THE RACE FOR SINGLE PADDLES.
“Get a move on, Bleek! Ginger up, pard, ginger up!”
“Good work, Merry! That’s the way to show ’em your heels!”
“Dig, old scout! Why don’t you _dig_?”
“Plenty of chance, yet, Bleek; don’t lose your nerve!”
“Chance? Why, Bleeker hasn’t a look-in--not with Chip Merriwell paddling
like that! Merry’s coming down the stretch like a scared coyote making
for home and mother. Hoop-a-la!”
There were five canoes in that race for single paddles. There had been
seven, but two had fouled each other and come to grief less than a
hundred yards from the starting point. Barzy Blunt and Hotchkiss, of
Gold Hill, were the unlucky ones. As soon as they had gained the shore
they joined the rooters who were running along the bank. A ducking had
not dampened their ardor in the least, and Blunt and Hotch pranced along
in their bathing trunks, cheering and encouraging the rest of the
racers.
It was late in the forenoon. The bright Arizona sun trailed its beams
over the waters of the gulch, gilding each little ripple as it danced
about the charging canoes. The only shadow on the stream was at the
place where the gentle slopes of the gulch banks were shouldered aside
by the steep bluff known as Apache Point.
Above the Point, and around the turn in the gulch, was a white flag. The
start of the canoe race had been from this flag. The “elbow” at the foot
of the Point was to be rounded by the racers, and the finish line was
opposite the white tents of the Gold Hill campers.
Apart from Blunt and Hotchkiss, the contesting paddlers were young
Merriwell, his chums, Owen Clancy and Billy Ballard, Bleeker, a leader
in the Gold Hill Athletic Club, and Lenaway, another member of the club.
Merriwell, Clancy, and Ballard, crouching in the sterns of their frail
craft, had worked easily but steadily from the start. They knew from
experience that swiftness in the get-away and a wild expenditure of
energy at the beginning caused the loss of many a race--not only on the
water but on the cinder track, as well. It is the fellow who carefully
and judiciously nurses his powers for a spurt on the home stretch that
makes the best showing, when all’s said and done.
The length of the course to be covered in this canoe race was about half
a mile. A hundred yards from the starting point, Frank and his chums
were some distance behind. Bleeker led, and almost neck and neck with
him were Hotchkiss and the cowboy, Barzy Blunt. Lenaway’s canoe filled
in the widening gap between the leaders and the Farnham Hall lads in the
rear.
Blunt had more strength than skill, and it was his awkwardness that
caused the crash with Hotchkiss. The violence of the impact caused both
canoes to roll over and fill. With these two contestants out of the way,
the race began rapidly narrowing down.
One by one the canoes rounded the foot of the Point, hugging the steep
wall closely. Bleeker led the procession, Lenaway followed, and then
came Merry, Clancy, and Ballard in the order named.
The instant Merriwell’s canoe shot away from the Point, however, he
could be seen to buckle to his work in masterly style. First he
overhauled Lenaway, and then passed him with comparative ease.
Lenaway, realizing that the race undoubtedly lay between Merriwell and
Bleeker, strove to take what honors he could away from Clancy and
Ballard. Halfway between the Point and the finish line, Ballard snapped
his paddle.
“How’s that for luck?” he shouted ruefully, as Clancy and Lenaway dashed
on prow to prow. “Go it, Reddy! It’s up to you and Chip, now, to show
these Gold Hillers what we can do.”
Bleeker, a prime fellow and trained to the minute, realized that he had
the fight of his life on his hands if he was to win against Merriwell.
He made swift demand upon all his reserve strength, and his muscles
answered superbly. But the strain of the contest was telling upon
him--mainly because he had worked too hard on the first half of the
course.
Merriwell was creeping up on the other canoe, slowly yet steadily and
relentlessly. And the remarkable part of his work was that the tension
of those exciting moments was not evident in a single move he made. With
easy, almost careless, grace he dipped his blade, and his light craft
plunged onward like a well-trained thoroughbred. It was evident to all
that Merriwell was a “stayer,” and that Bleeker had about shot his bolt.
Frank was somewhat surprised at Bleeker, for on the preceding day he and
Clancy had given the Gold Hill lads an object lesson in husbanding
resources for the home stretch and not being too free with them at the
beginning. Bleeker should have profited by that experience.
Little by little Merry drew up abreast of Bleeker. The latter’s face was
set and there was a strained look about it which proved how hard he was
driving himself.
When Frank nosed on into the lead, a roar went up from the bank. Blunt
was rooting for Merry, and cheering with all his range ardor and
enthusiasm. The cowboy had a whole-souled admiration for the Eastern
lad, and believed that no one of his age or inches could beat him at any
sport.
“Whoop!” he bellowed, jumping around on the bank in his drenched and
abbreviated costume. “Keep your eye on my pard, will you? Throw up your
hands, Bleek! It’s as good as over.”
“Never say die, Bleek!” shouted a Gold Hiller across the water. “Keep at
it, old man! Come ahead, come ahead!”
Bleeker was fighting gamely. He was not the lad to quit because the tide
of battle was running against him. By an effort as remarkable as it was
unexpected, he dug down into an underlying stratum of power and hurled
his canoe onward until it was again nose to nose with Merriwell’s.
Frank’s admiration for his plucky rival was great. To win over such a
true sportsman would be a victory to be highly prized.
And Frank was doing his best. If Bleeker’s sudden access of strength
held out, Frank might be only second at the swimming float where the
race was to end.
“Go to it, Chip!” yelled a voice which had not been heard before in all
that riot of noise from the river bank. “You’re generally first at the
last of it, mainly because you never get rattled by being last at the
beginning. Now’s the time to make your showing!”
A thrill shot through Merriwell as he heard that particular voice. He
was wondering a little, too, as to how the owner of that voice happened
to be at the Gold Hill camp. Just then, however, he had no attention to
spare from his immediate work.
Bleeker’s spurt did not last. He had been too prodigal of his strength.
His canoe began dropping off, and Merriwell came abreast of the float
half a length in the lead.
“Hoop-a-la!” shouted Barzy Blunt, cutting a few cowboy capers on the
bank. “What did I tell you, eh? Hurrah for Chip--a chip of the old block
if there ever was one.”
Ballard, working his way to the shore with what was left of his paddle,
likewise exulted in his chum’s victory. Clancy, reaching the float just
ahead of Lenaway, joined in the cheering.
Bleeker, although breathless with his efforts, managed to get his canoe
alongside Merriwell’s.
“Put it there, Chip,” he laughed, reaching out his hand. “You gave me
the finest bit of fun I’ve had in many a day.”
Merriwell clasped the hand heartily.
“It was anybody’s race for a while, Bleek,” he answered. “If we had it
to do over again, more than likely you’d trim me.”
“Not so you could notice it, old man. You’re a stayer from Stayerville,
and I take off my hat to you as the better man.”
It was to be noticed that the cheering over Merry’s victory was general,
and the Gold Hill boys joined in it quite as heartily as did Frank’s
chums and his cowboy friend. As Merry brought his canoe to the bank and
hopped ashore, he was greeted by the lad whose voice he had heard so
unexpectedly while the canoes were bearing down on the float.
“Up to your old tricks, eh, Chip?” laughed this youth. “If I had known
what was on for this morning, I’d have tried to get here earlier.”
“Hannibal Bradlaugh, by Jove!” cried Merry, taking a grip on the hand
that was pushed out to him.
Ever since Merry had come to southern Arizona he had known the son of
the president of the Ophir Athletic Club. The clubs at Ophir and Gold
Hill were rivals--bitter rivals, at one time, but now, in a great
measure, owing to Merriwell’s efforts, all the bitterness was a thing of
the past.
“Hello, Brad!” called Bleeker, pushing forward to take the hand
Merriwell had released. “The last of that performance was the best part
of it, so you didn’t miss a whole lot by getting here late. If you’ve
come to stay for a while, we’ll give you a chance to take a hand in some
of these water sports.”
“I’m not going to have my scalp dangling at any Gold Hill belt,” Brad
laughed, “and that’s what would happen if I got hold of a paddle and
tried to do anything. Anyhow, I didn’t come to stay for more than a few
minutes. I’m after Chip. He’s wanted in Ophir.”
“News from Bloomfield?” Frank asked, lifting his eyes quickly.
“No, nothing from Bloomfield. I’m sorry as blazes to cut short your stay
here----”
“We were going back to Ophir this afternoon, anyhow,” Merry cut in, “so
that part of it is all right. Pink, Clan, and I promised the professor
solemnly we’d get back to town this evening. He’d be after us if we
didn’t go, for that’s the sort of a prof he is. What’s up, Brad? From
your looks I should say it was serious business.”
“Oh, not so blamed serious. Step over this way a minute, will you?”
Bradlaugh drew Merriwell to one side and began talking to him in low,
earnest tones. As Merry listened, an expression of thoughtful concern
could be seen to cross his face.