Shortly after noon, there stepped from the first "special" into
New London a fragile yet sprightly little woman in rustling black,
alone, but confident and unafraid. Her sweet face was made beautiful,
even youthful, by the flush of excitement that tinted her cheek so
delicately beneath her silvered hair. Violets were pinned at her
waist; in one hand she carried a flag of Yale blue, and in the other
a decorative souvenir programme "containing the pictures of all the
crews." Those near her in the car had watched with pleasure her
vivacious interest in this booklet, but only the gentleman sitting next
her had been taken into her confidence. Thirty years out of college,
he was come from the far West to his class reunion, and he, too, had a
boy in Yale. Fortunately or otherwise, he had not kept in touch with
the most recent news of the heroic figures of aquatics, and he knew
not even the names of the crew of the year at Yale, so that she could
enlighten his lamentable ignorance and right willingly. The "souvenir"
booklet had been printed a week before the race, too soon to record the
change in the _personnel_ of the Yale eight, and there was her boy's
picture filling a page, a massive young giant, most scantily clothed.
The man from the West saw in the picture the mother's brown eyes, and
his heart was stirred, for he knew what it was to have an only son with
his mother's eyes.
"Yes, John has been on the crew three years," she confided, "and he
will be the captain next year. I fairly live with him in spirit through
the whole six months of the training season. He has had a very hard
time this season, and lately his letters have been a little despondent.
But I was never so delighted as when I learned from the head-lines of
this morning's newspapers that there has been a wonderful improvement
in the last week. Oh, I am excited, there is no use trying to deny it.
It is almost too big an event for an old woman to survive."
The gray-haired stranger was comforting, and in the recesses of his
memory found certain eulogies pronounced by his son regarding "Jack
Hastings, the biggest man in his class, by Jove!" He insisted upon
presenting two of his own classmates, and they bowed low in formal
tribute to the "mother of the next captain of the crew."
The porter must leave her bag in the station, for she could not wait
to go to the boarding house when the air was full of tingling sights
and sounds, all the excitement and flaunting color paying homage to the
prowess of John Hastings. She found Car Fifteen, and sat in a beautiful
dream, watching the holiday crowds fill the canopied lengths of open
train. What a tale to tell when she should come again to the little
colorless village in the South! It seemed impossible to drink it all in
when the train began to move and in a few moments the amazing panorama
of the Thames flashed into view. The eager eyes of the oarsman's mother
passed quickly over the gorgeous marine pictures, by the twisting
length of the riotous train, up, up the river toward the quiet reaches,
hoping to discern the white house on the high bank and the big blue
flag floating above the Quarters at Gales Ferry, a scene she knew from
many descriptions.
Soon the train had passed the yachts and the crowds massed on shore,
and was opposite the red-roofed home of the Harvard crew, whose crimson
flag seemed to her to flaunt an insolent defiance. In near-by cars
fluttered many Harvard flags, as the partisans from Cambridge chanted
their slogan, inspired by the sight of their rowing camp across the
river. She turned to look at the offenders with reproof in her manner.
How could they be so misguided as to cheer for Harvard? How dreadful
it was to think that if John should be beaten, every one of them
would be shouting even louder for joy. So she turned to gaze at the
Yale Quarters, which she could see quite plainly, and the ugly brown
boathouse squatted at the water's edge.
Her color came and went, and stayed in a brilliant patch when she saw,
with a quick intake of breath, a yellow streak appear in front of
the boathouse and a number of Lilliputians walking beside it. There
seemed an eternity of delay before the wisp of a shell settled on the
water, and nine figures climbed into it, while her heart was tripping
furiously.
The thing became in motion, it was crawling across the river like a
mechanical toy, with frequent pauses. Could this be the Crew, this
fragile thing that moved over the water so slowly? A roar from the
Harvard cars, and Mrs. Hastings turned to see a similar set of manikins
swaying in as absurd a boat, heading out from "Red Top." The mother
looked at them only for an instant, because the Yale crew was crossing
the river faster than she could realize, and soon it was half a mile
above the start, paddling and drifting down with the tide to get into
position at its stake-boat. She wanted to call imploringly to the
referee to bring the crew nearer, nearer, so that she might see the
men, and count from the bow, to two, three, four, _five_. Presently
the shell swung round, parallel with the shore, and maneuvered into
position scarcely twenty yards from the observation train hanging on
the edge of the bank.
At last the mother could look for Number Five. She counted with an
eager and quivering finger. No, she must have made a mistake--that was
not John at Number Five. They must have shifted him to another seat at
the last moment.
She flung away all method and searched the stern young faces from
stroke to bow, from bow to stroke and back again, with yearning agony
of intensity. She made bold to ask that the gentleman next her lend
her his field-glasses for a moment, and focused them on the shell,
seeking in vain. The color had fled from her cheeks, and she sat
back, white and silent, beyond speech. Around her raved the cheers of
thousands, but the rocketing "rahs" for Yale sounded in her ears like
some barbaric funeral chant. She had become old and weak far beyond her
years.
Her distress was unnoticed, and through a haze she saw the long
shells leap from their leashes with incredible suddenness in tearing
cascades of foam. To the mourning mother the race was no more than an
exhibition of automatons, as Harvard took the lead, and then the long
Yale swing cut it down remorselessly, foot by foot, until the gap was
closed. She closed her eyes with a weary sigh, but rallied in a little
while to try to make herself heard above the din. Yale was spurting
gallantly, and those around her were oblivious to the quavering voice
and its vital questions:
"Where is John Hastings? Number Five in the Yale Crew? Where has he
gone? What have they done with him? Oh, tell me, tell me, tell me,
please. I am his mother."
Yale hopes drooped as Harvard met the spurt, and in the lull a young
man of a kindly face saw that she was ill, and leaned toward her to ask
whether he could help. She was able to make him understand, and there
was a huskiness in his voice that came not all from cheering, as he
said:
"Why, he's all right, safe and sound as a dollar. He was taken out of
the boat four or five days ago, and Matthews put in his place. No, I
don't know what the matter was. Too heavy, I fancy. I'm awfully
sorry for you."
[Illustration: _Jack Hasting's mother cannot find her boy in the crew._]
Where else should a boy flee in time of trouble than straight to
his mother's arms? Therefore the reason for his disappearance must
be an alarming one. Then she felt a blaze of swift anger. It was an
outrageous act of injustice, this deed of the Yale coaches. They were
no better than conspirators thus to treat the best oarsman they had. It
was not in a mother's philosophy to grasp the view-point that what was
best for Yale was best for all who fought for its glory. She vowed that
a reckoning was due, and that her duty was to see these coaches, and
tell them the truth before she left the scene. And so, between wrath
and tears, she saw the race end, saw the Yale crew sweep across the
finish line, victors over Harvard by four lengths. This was what she
had come to see, what she had lived in the hope of seeing through three
long years, and now all had turned to ashes.
Wearily she threaded a way through the thronging railroad station,
found a cab and gave the driver directions for reaching the boarding
house where a room awaited her. Her steps faltered as she toiled up
the stairs, and all that gave her strength for the ascent was the
flicker of hope that John might be there, or that some message had come
from him. The room was empty, the table bare of letter or telegram.
Carefully laying her bonnet and jacket on a chair, she looked at her
face in a mirror, and it frightened her. Although she was eager to be
out again in search of the way to Gales Ferry, rest was imperative, and
she crossed over to the bed and lay down for a few moments until the
dizzy faintness should pass.