AT THE FINISH LINE
“Now we’ve got something to go on,” said Harry, as they walked along the
road that skirts the shore.
“You mean, _they’ve_ got something to go on, if your idea is right,”
Gordon corrected. “Think the sun’s coming out, Harry.”
The belated sun was indeed breaking through the clouds. Harry saw from
his map that there was but one stream emptying into the lake between
them and Port Henry, and on reaching this they found that it was not
suitable for even a motor-dory.
They had no intention of making inquiries in the village, their plan
being now to go up the lake shore till they found a boat, or boats,
moored, or streams to explore. They would march straight through the
village as if they did not know it was there.
“I understand we’re not to recognize Port Henry, Kid?”
“We’ll snub it, Harry. We don’t want to get any directions at the last
minute.”
But Port Henry had something to say about this. She was not in the habit
of having people pass by without acknowledging her, and just at this
particular time she was putting on her holiday clothes. She always makes
a great splurge in the summer, and in the winter rolls herself up like a
bear and goes to sleep.
It was well on in the afternoon when Harry and Gordon came in sight of
the town and decided to pitch their shelter in a little grove till
morning. For Gordon was too weary to go farther. As night came on, they
could see the lights of the village in the distance, and they busied
themselves speculating what the morrow might bring forth.
Harry looked at Gordon critically. “Do you feel you need some meat, old
man? How are you, weak?”
“No. Just tired. I’m going to turn in early.”
“I’ll try for a rabbit if you say, Kid, but I’d rather not. If you’re
weak, just say so, and I’ll find you something hearty.”
“Bacon and cereal will do for me, Harry.”
“All right, then. Sit where you are—I’m going to learn that trick of
yours, making a fire. Here, get under the shelter and stuff these
cushions back of you. You’re all in, old man; take it easy now.”
“Harry, this may be the last supper you and I’ll have together.”
“Like enough, if we’re lucky.”
“To-morrow’s the Fourth of July.”
“So it is!”
“I kind of wish we’d have a few days more of it, Harry.”
“Why? Suppose you open up that egg powder—sit still now.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Gordon; “I—I—kind of like being alone with
you, Harry.”
“Same with me, Kid.”
“I hope you’ll never move away from Oakwood, Harry.”
“Not much danger of that; our house was built by my grandfather. Look
here, Kid, I know what’s the matter with you—you’re just dead tired.”
“Your father might put up a new house somewhere else, like Mr.
Danforth.”
“No sirree! We all think too much of the old shack; and anyway, if he
did, there’d be a room for the Black Ranger, all right, no matter where
it was. We’d think of a way, Kiddo.”
“I don’t know how it is, Harry, I seem to learn things from you without
your teaching them to me—I just learn them.”
“Nonsense!”
“Don’t you think one fellow can learn better from another than from some
one else? I mean, Harry, if you think a whole lot of a fel—a person,
why, you’d learn more from him than—Now, I’ll never smoke a cigarette
after what you said, Harry, and it wasn’t like a lesson at all.”
“Guess you’ll never learn much from me, old man—Hand me the saucepan,
will you?”
“My father thinks I will—and anyway, I’m glad I’m in your patrol.”
“Well, the patrol wouldn’t part with G. Lord for a seagoing yacht.”
“Just the same, I’d like to be alone with you a little longer, Harry,
honest, I would.—I heard Red Deer tell my father how important it is in
camping to find pure water. He said fellows about the age of the older
ones in our troop are liable to typhoid fever. I hope you’ll never get
that, Harry.”
“Kid, you’re a great old boy.”
“Let’s feel your muscle, will you, Harry?”
Harry went over, smiling, and bent his arm slowly back and forth.
“My, you wouldn’t think a fellow as thin as you would have a muscle like
that, Harry.”
Harry laughed outright, and doubling his fist, thrust it gently into the
younger boy’s upturned face.
The next morning they went into Port Henry, and found the village in
gala attire. It was their purpose to hire a canoe, and continue their
explorations along the shore and up the smaller streams. This would be
easier than mountain-climbing (of which Harry thought Gordon had had
enough), and since there was now some reason to expect to find camp
along the shore, a little paddling about, as Harry said, would not go
half bad.
“Port Henry’s dressed up as if she was going to graduate,—hey, Kid?”
“She certainly has her pink sash on. I wonder what’s up.”
The town was resplendent in bunting festoons and streamers, and every
store and house had its flag. The national emblem, of course,
predominated, but here and there hung a triangular, purple flag showing
the letters M B C in white, with an anchor beneath.
Most of the stores were closed, and there was a general air of holiday
festivity among the little groups that talked excitedly here and there.
The city people were in festive array. Tennis-shirted and sneaker-shod
young gentlemen lolled about.
“Cracky!” said Gordon, “the shoe business must be good here.”
“Yes,” Harry answered. “I don’t suppose there was ever a shoe box but
was doomed to carry sandwiches sometime or other. There are a lot of
folks here from out of town.”
Presently they were reading a big poster in one of the windows:
REGATTA
MOHAWK BOAT CLUB
JULY FOURTH
WATER EVENTS AT 2 P.M. SHARP
ROWING
SWIMMING
SAILING
MUSIC BY PORT HENRY BAND
FIREWORKS IN EVENING
BASEBALL! BASEBALL!
PORT HENRY VS. PLATTSBURGH
_SPECIAL_
GOODWIN, THE DARING AVIATOR, WILL
FLY IN HIS AIRSHIP TO VERMONT
AND BACK, ALIGHTING ON THE GREEN
“Looks as if there were going to be some doings,” said Harry.
“Not much chance of getting hold of a canoe to-day, I’m afraid,”
commented Gordon.
They sauntered up the main street, and could not fail to notice that
several people turned and stared at them. Harry thought it was because
of their rather battered and disheveled appearance. As they passed the
post-office, a little crowd of city fellows called tauntingly after
them.
“There’s a couple of them, now,” said one.
“Hurrah for the Boy Spouts!” another shouted. “Sh-h-h!” said another.
“They’re on the trail of a deer—don’t disturb them!”
Gordon glanced back, laughing cheerfully at his own expense, and noticed
that one of the fellows had a flag with the words WELDEN SCHOOL on it,
and that several others wore pale blue sweaters bearing a W on the
chest.
“Them chaps is goin’ to win the regetty,” volunteered a black-coated man
near by, who looked pathetically uncomfortable in his gala attire.
“They’re champion experts.”
“Bully for them,” said Harry, cheerily.
Presently, as they passed a pleasant cottage, a woman with a battalion
of small children turned in at the gate.
“Give me the key,” they heard her say to one of the boys.
“I haven’t got it.”
“Who has?”
It appeared that none of them had.
“Well,” said the woman, in despair, “we’re locked out, then. I _told_
you to put the key in your pocket.”
“So I did.”
“Well, where is it, then?”
“You told me I could leave off my jacket—it’s in my jacket pocket.”
The woman stood frowning.
“Could we do anything to help you?” said Harry, vaulting the low fence
and standing, hat in hand, before her. Gordon followed and stood beside
him.
“I’m afraid not,” said she. “We’re locked out; it’s most exasperating.
John, you’ll have to run straight down to Mr. Berry’s and tell him to
come right up.”
“Just wait a minute, please,” said Harry. “Maybe we can think of some
way to get in. All the windows are locked, I suppose?” He stepped out a
little and saw that a window above the doorway was open. From its sill a
flagpole projected.
“You can never get in there,” said the woman.
“Is that a hammock hook on that tree?” Harry asked.
“Yes.”
“The hammock doesn’t happen to be outdoors anywhere, does it?”
The hammock was found to be behind the house, and Harry carried it to
the front doorway. The hammock itself, together with its two ropes,
formed a line perhaps twelve feet long, which was easily thrown over the
inner end of the pole. In a moment Harry had swung himself up to the
flagpole and reaching down from it was carefully brushing off the dust
which his feet had left on the flag. The woman watched him with an
amused smile.
“That’s one of the first things we scouts have to learn,” Gordon told
her,—“respect for the flag.”
Presently Harry opened the front door. The woman was very profuse in her
thanks.
“There’s nothing to thank me for,” said Harry. “You know, I used to be a
burglar,” he added, laughing.
“But you must come in,” she said. “I’m sure you’re strangers. What can I
do to repay you?”
She insisted upon their following her into the cozy little sitting-room.
“It was nothing at all,” Harry said. “But if we might ask a favor,
perhaps you’d be willing to let us clean up a bit here. My friend—well,
I’m really ashamed of him—the fact is, we’ve been mountaineering.”
Might they? Indeed they might! And they must also stay and have some
lunch. No, she would hear of nothing else.
It is a scout’s duty to be polite and not to gainsay a lady, so
they—well, they stayed, in obedience to Section 5, Scout Law.
When they thanked her and started forth from her hospitable roof, they
were quite presentable. She had insisted upon sewing several buttons on
Gordon’s uniform, all of which he had unearthed from various pockets,
and after a sponging process, he came forth glowing and immaculate.
They had also learned something regarding the day’s program. Four rowing
crews were entered for a contest,—Plattsburgh, Port Henry, and a crew
of boys from the Welden School who were summering at Port Henry. The
Welden School was somewhere over in Vermont, or Massachusetts, she
thought. Then there was also another crew “from down lake somewheres,”
but she guessed the Welden boys would have things their own way. She
didn’t care much who won “s’long’s nobody got drowned.”
The boys thanked her again and started for the seat of war. They found
both shores lined with people as far down as they could see. Harry had
hoped to get a glimpse of the racing craft and size up the contesting
crews, but the dense throng surrounding the boat-house and float made
this impossible.
“Come on,” said he, “there’s nothing doing here. Let’s get down to the
finish. I don’t believe they’ll pull more than a mile.”
They started down the road which skirted the shore, working their way
through a labyrinth of buckboards and three-seated stages and throngs of
spectators. Overhead, the sky was cloudless, and the sun poured hotly
down upon an army of parasols. Out in the lake it touched the still
water with gold, and here a little motor-dory, flying the boat-club’s
colors, chugged about, warning encroaching canoes off the course. It
seemed to be a thankless task, for as fast as one was driven back
another darted forward, until the busy, important little boat reminded
one of the old woman who lived in a shoe. Down at the finish, the throng
expanded into a seething mass. So close together were canoes and dories
that they seemed to form a solid float. On the shore, carriages and
autos were drawn up. The whole countryside had turned out in holiday
attire.
Through this dense mass the boys managed, by a series of maneuvers, to
reach the shore, and soon stood at a point where they had an open view
up the river. The little official boat came chugging down past them, and
boldly essayed the task of ordering a handsome steam yacht to get beyond
the finish line.
“We’re not on the course,” shouted its captain.
“Yes, you are, sir,” answered the official bouncer; “you’ll have to get
downstream.”
The boys listened to this dispute, which was within a few feet of them,
with a good deal of curiosity, for there is nothing so interesting as an
altercation in a public place, when suddenly there was a frantic waving
from the deck of the yacht.
“Why, there’s Miss Crosby!” exclaimed Gordon.
They waved their caps to her, and she suddenly disappeared. Evidently,
she had issued her orders, for the yacht, in utter defiance of rules and
regulations, was brought alongside a neighboring pier, and the crowd, no
doubt much impressed with its gorgeous appearance, for it was a
glittering combination of white and brass, opened to let the two boys
pass down and go aboard.
“The _idea_!” said Miss Crosby, as she greeted them. “I never _knew_
such downright _tyranny_! That’s the _only_ thing to call it! They seem
to think they _own_ the lake!”
“I’m afraid it looks as if _we_ thought that,” said a genial voice, and
the boys turned in surprise to see Mr. Danforth coming toward them with
outstretched hand. “But we couldn’t pass right by you. Miss Crosby
said—”
“Oh, I _never_ said _anything_ of the kind!”
“He probably just deduced it,” laughed Harry, “whatever it was.”
Mr. Danforth chuckled; he had evidently heard about their “deducing.”
“Well,” said he, cheerily, “who’s going to win the race?”
“_We_ don’t even know the program,” said Harry. “We just dropped into
town.”
“Still hunting?” laughed Mr. Danforth.
“Still hunting,” said Harry.
“Well, well, you must take an afternoon off and explain the events to
us; we’ve been hearing more about you from this young lady.” The young
lady gave him a very severe scowl, but it did not deter him in the
least. “She’s been very much interested in your trip, and we’ve been
comparing notes about you. Now, here we are, met again, all hands around
St. Paul’s, as you might say. By Jove, I’m sorry Pen isn’t here! Come
aft and let me introduce you to our little party.”
The yacht had now steamed out of forbidden territory. Mr. Danforth led
the boys to an awning-covered stretch of deck, strewn with oriental rugs
and comfortable wicker chairs. The party consisted of Mr. and Mrs.
Danforth and their daughters, Miss Antoinette and her mother, and a
couple of gentlemen from the city.
“Well, now,” said their host, “I don’t believe I’ll have the courage to
tell Pen we saw you. You’ll have to go home with us—that’s the only
way.”
“Mr. Danforth was just saying,” his wife continued, “that he wouldn’t
dare tell Pen there was an aeroplane flight; but, I declare, I believe
he’ll be even more disappointed at not seeing you.”
“Well, probably there won’t be any flight,” said one of the gentlemen;
“there usually isn’t.”
“That’s so,” said Mr. Danforth; “the weather clerk finds it pretty hard
to suit an aviator. Now there isn’t a breath stirring to-day, and the
sailing race is off on account of the calm; but you just wait and see if
this fellow doesn’t come out with the statement that there’s too much
wind.”
“Well,” said the other gentleman, “as I understand it, an aviator
sometimes means the air above—some distance up. They say the air is
always in more rapid circulation up a ways. And then, there are what
they call pockets of air—sometimes it’s full of those things up above
when it’s calm down here.”
“Something like Gordon’s pockets, here, I suppose,” interpolated Harry;
“full of all sorts of junk—gusts of wind, odds and ends of squalls, and
things like that. I suppose those things would play the mischief with an
aeroplane. I don’t know much about the subject myself.”
“He does, too,” said Gordon.
“Kind of atmospheric spasms,” said Mr. Danforth.
“Something like that,” answered his friend. “There’s a kind of little
fan they shoot up in the air which will often give them an idea how
things are up there—they’ve got to be careful.”
“No life-saving stations up there,” laughed Mr. Danforth. “Well, I just
wish you could see Pen’s new model, Harry. The motor actually does go
for nearly a minute. It’s the most ingenious thing I ever saw. By Jove,
if the little fellow doesn’t win that contest, I believe it’ll kill him!
He’s just counting the days till we get to Oakwood.”
The conversation was interrupted by the muffled sound of cheering along
the shore. The yacht was brought around so that the deck aft commanded a
vista of smooth water, reflecting in long perspective its bordering rows
of waiting spectators, and the party had an unobstructed view up the
course. Far up the shore, flags and caps were waving, showing that the
first heat had begun.
The judge’s launch chugged around under the yacht’s stern and out into
midstream. The patrol boat, with a great deal of racket, made a final
cruise driving back unruly canoes and punts. Neighboring boats which
gloried in the possession of whistles, began tooting them. There was a
general bustle of suspense and expectation. The cheering up the course
rolled nearer like a wave. A gay little dory, containing a dozen fellows
in pale blue sweaters, who were shouting a club or school yell, shot
across the course, in laughing defiance of the judge, and took an
advantageous position.
“Hurrah for Welden!” shouted some one.
“Those boys are going to win in a walk,” called a voice under the
yacht’s rail. “They’re college trained.”
Far up the course, two slender craft shot into view. Harry took the
glass from Mr. Danforth and saw that one of them was leading by more
than a length. As they neared, the space between them steadily
increased. He handed the glass to Miss Crosby. “The crew on the left are
rowing ragged,” he told her.
“They may catch up,” she said excitedly. “Just _see_ how they splash!”
“’Fraid not,” Harry answered. “It’s all over. It was won before it
began.”
It was certainly won long before it was finished. Amid excited cheering
and frantic waving of flags, a single boat glided past the finish line.
The other crew had gone to pieces up the course.
“Who are those that won?” Mr. Danforth called over the rail to one of
the boats that were clustered thick under the yacht’s stern.
“The college boys,” some one answered. “Plattsburgh crew stopped to
fish.”
“I don’t believe they did,” said the girl, incredulously.
“No, I don’t either; there isn’t any good fishing up there,” said Harry,
soberly.
“Who ought I to cheer for?” she asked, surveying the party.
“Well, I guess those college boys are right in your line,” Harry said.
“They’re certainly first-class oarsmen. I believe they come from
somewhere over in Massachusetts, don’t they? What’s that their friends
are waving?”
Amid much laughter, the blue-sweater crowd had hoisted a great banner
above their little craft, on which was printed in charcoal:
These are our regulations,—
There’s just one fate for the scout,
And the hayseeds, too,
And when we’re through
They’ll look like all get-out!
There were loud congratulations from the occupants of this launch to the
victorious crew, whom they boisterously pulled into their craft. The two
heroes, who, it was plain to see, were crack rowers, joined them in a
most complicated and idiotic conglomeration of rah, rah, rahs, cisses,
booms, and the usual vocabulary of victorious athletes.
But the program had taken on a new interest for Harry and Gordon, and
they awaited the next heat with some suspense. To be sure, it was likely
enough that a town the size of Plattsburgh would have a troop of scouts,
or, for that matter, there might be a troop even in such a little
village as Port Henry. But the Oakwood boys had never given this a
thought, until now it appeared that a crew of scouts was to row in the
second trial.
“That’s a pretty good one on you boys,” laughed Mr. Danforth, referring
to the placard. “What scouts do they mean, anyway?”
“You’ve got _me_,” said Harry. “I don’t know; there must be a troop, or
at least, a patrol, organized somewhere round here. They’ll never outrow
that blue-sweater crowd, I can tell you that.”
“Well, that’s a good taunt, anyway,” Mr. Danforth laughed.
“_I_ think it’s _insulting_,” said Miss Crosby; “and it’s perfectly
_dreadful_ poetry.”
By a series of inquiries among the jubilant throng below, the party
succeeded in learning that the next heat was to be between the Port
Henry boys and some boy scouts from somewhere.
The moments seemed long before the excitement along the shore told that
the second pair of contestants were coming down the course. Soon they
shot into view, gliding abreast, as it seemed, with the little
power-boat of the referee close in their wake. Harry studied the crews
with his glasses, as the rise and fall of the oars became discernible.
“They’re walking along, all right,” he said, handing Gordon the glass.
“Can you make out their flags?”
They had left the three-quarters flag behind them, and the moving backs
of the rowers and the long sweep of the oars were plainly visible. The
rowing seemed mechanical—perfect. Each shell held its way wonderfully
between strokes. Neither bow swerved, but they came down through the
cheering, frantic crowds like two arrows. The flags, fluttering behind,
afforded no hint to those at the finish line, but as the shells neared,
loud shouts went up for Port Henry, and many flags were waved.
A clumsy-looking motor-boat shot out from the shore, and followed in the
wake of the referee’s boat, as close as it dared. It held several
people, notably a man in white. The party on the yacht watched
breathlessly as the oars rose dripping from the water, paused a fraction
of a second in air, then plunged silently, uniformly, into the
sun-flecked lake.
Far forward, far backward, leaned each crew with mathematical precision,
as the shells, side by side, sped on. Then one crept forward.
“They’re hitting it up,” said Harry, as deafening yells rose about them.
They were close on the finish line now, one nearly half a length ahead.
Cheers for Port Henry filled the air. “Come on! Row!” some one shouted.
“You’re walking away from them!”
The second boat’s prow was even with the forward rower of the rival
shell. Then it lagged even with the second oarsman. Then it fell astern,
amid a pandemonium of waving and yelling.
“It’s all over,” some one called.
Then a voice from the motor-boat following called, “Lengthen out!”
The cry seemed to give new courage to the pair in the second shell.
Their prow again rode level with the second member of the rival crew.
Again they bent forward, their oars seemed for a second glued to the
boat’s side, and as they rose again she shot forward. Again, and still
again, the lithe forms bent, forward, back, and with each rise of the
straining figures the craft leaped forward.
Now the two shells were even, their crews rowing like demons. Then again
amid the shouting from both shores, the voice from the motor-boat cried,
“Lengthen out!” and the shell which had regained its position darted
forward again, past the other boat, and amid a bedlam of yells, the
screech of whistles, and the frantic waving of a thousand handkerchiefs
and flags, glided past the finish line, a half-length ahead of its
rival.
In the moment of triumph, one of the victorious rowers was seen to sway,
then sink forward. Harry could see it plainly—it was within a few yards
of the yacht. The referee’s launch chugged up; some one called to the
white figure in the old motor-boat, which was also drawing near. Others
paddled up with congratulations and inquiries.
“Is there a doctor ashore?” some one called.
“No need for that, sir,” said the white figure in the approaching
motor-boat. “I’m a doctor myself—just help me get him aboard here.”
Harry clutched the rail, speechless. He knew that voice, he knew that
manner, he knew the glitter of the gold spectacles; yes, and he should
have recognized before the spotless suit of white duck.
It was Red Deer.