ON THE LAKE.
THE opening of the summer term found the Arnolds back in their old
places at Flemming, for it had seemed best not to interrupt their school
life, much as Mrs. Arnold longed to have them with her. She was not the
woman to sacrifice to her own inclinations the best good of her
children, and not even Harry’s entreaties to be allowed to stay with her
and Dorothy, had moved her from her original plan. Moreover the boys
were too young, she felt, to have their lives saddened by the constant
sight of her grief, so with the unselfishness of the true mother, she
gave them up once more, to go back to their happy school life among the
New Hampshire hills.
And the change was good for them. The past three weeks had worn upon
them both, and they needed the association with their old comrades to
rouse them from their sorrow. At home, everything had suggested to them
their loss; their father’s easy chair, his favorite books, even the very
walls of the rooms seemed to speak of him and of his absence. Once back
at Hilton, it was different. It was not that either Harry or Leon forgot
their father or mourned for him any the less; but the reaction had come,
as it naturally would do, and the fresh every-day interests crowded into
their lives and, in a measure, replaced the one absorbing thought of
their trouble.
Hilton was very beautiful, that year, with the on-coming of the spring;
and the seniors watched it lovingly, with a tender regret that, for
them, it was the last opportunity to see the buds swell into fresh green
leaves, to hear the songs of the birds returning to the Hilton
woodlands. A year from that time, they would all be scattered, while the
familiar life of the old school would be going on just as usual, only
without them.
One Saturday afternoon, early in May, Flemming Hall was quite deserted;
not a face appeared at any of the windows, not a cadet was to be seen in
any part of the grounds. It was the day of the annual regatta between
the junior and senior classes, and the Flemming world had betaken itself
to the lake.
Lake Hudson, as the cadets had named it, in honor of the river which
rolls below the West Point bluff, lay two or three miles to the north of
the village, in a small valley among the surrounding hills. It was a
beautiful sheet of water, more than six miles long, and only broken by
one little island near the southern end. Learned professors who had
visited the spot, had examined it well, surprised at its lack of inlets,
and had come to the only possible conclusion, that it was fed from
underground sources. This gave an air of mystery to the little lake,
which was heightened by a hollow, rumbling echo, to be heard at certain
points along the shore, that suggested rocky caverns far below the
surface. Lake Hudson had had its tragedy, too, like many another
peaceful inland lake. The boys were all familiar with the sad story of
the famous young musician who had been caught in a squall one day, while
fishing in company with his older brother; how the boat had been
overturned, and the older man had clung to its side in safety, only to
see his brother struggle and sink before his very eyes.
But the lake looked quiet enough to-day, in the warm spring sun which
lay over the water, turning it to a sheet of dazzling silver, broken
here and there into the tiny golden ripples which came nearer and
nearer, to creep through the rushes by the shore and splash up against
the pebbles on the margin, with a gentle, lapping sound. Away to the
north, the valley opened out before the eye, showing ranges of hills
growing more and more distant until their green sides turned to a hazy
blue, and then lost themselves against the hazier blue of the sky. The
wooded shores sloped down to the road which ran along the very borders
of the lake, affording scanty room for the throng of carriages which had
gathered there, for the day of the regatta was a gala day for the
surrounding towns, and ever since noon, the quiet country roads had been
gay with the crowd that had assembled from far and near to watch the
contest. Soon after dinner, the cadets had left Flemming, to walk up to
the lake, and a little later the doctor and his wife, Lieutenant Wilde
and Mr. Boniface had driven away in the same direction.
The three-mile course lay along beside the western bank, within full
view of the road, and started from a point about half a mile from the
foot of the lake, near the southern end of the little island, to take
advantage of a long, unbroken sweep of shore which afforded an
uninterrupted view of the boats, as they moved along parallel with the
road. Far out, beyond the line of gayly decorated stakes which marked
the half-mile points on the course, the water was dotted thickly with
the little boats of every shape and color, in which the boys were
paddling about as they waited for the crews to take their position at
the starting-line.
“Rah! F. L. E. M. M. I. N. G! Fszt! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah!”
The Flemming cheer came up from the lake, in a stormy chorus, as the
doctor, with a tiny morocco case in his hand, stepped into the boat
which was awaiting him, and was rowed away towards the upper end of the
course, where a stake, adorned with the colors of the two classes,
marked the goal. For a time, the _Flemming_ was the centre of interest;
then, as it slowly came round into position and dropped anchor, every
eye was turned back, to look away to the southern end of the lake, where
the crews were still hidden in the lee of the Flemming boat house.
To the eager watchers, it seemed as if they would never start out into
sight; and they strained their eyes to catch the first glimpse of the
red and blue jerseys. In all the history of Flemming regattas, there had
never been so exciting a race as this one, for it was agreed on all
sides that, in any event, it must be a very close victory. Both crews
were in perfect condition, for they had been in training for months, and
had taken to the water so soon as the spring thaws had cleared the lake
of floating ice, and allowed them to go up for their daily pull over the
course. Moreover, the seniors were resolved to wipe out the stain upon
their football record, while the juniors were no less determined to
maintain the advantage they had gained, and leave untarnished the name
and glory of the class of ninety-two.
Some trifling collision between two of the little boats had directed the
attention to the upper end of the lake, when an enthusiastic cheer from
a tiny blue boat, turned every eye towards the boat house. Slowly the
junior crew rounded the side and came into view, followed, at a little
distance, by the seniors, and both rowed lazily down to the
starting-point. The regular sweep of the oars, and the almost mechanical
precision of the motion of the backs, as they rose and fell in perfect
unison, were the only hints they gave of their power, as they came down
towards their waiting schoolmates, who received them with loyal shouts,—
“Nine-ty-one! Rah! Nine-ty-one! Rah!”
“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”
But the shouts died away, as the crews took their places. The light
shells lay motionless upon the water, while the rowers sat with their
oars poised in air, their gaze bent on Lieutenant Wilde, as he stood
waiting to give the signal. Not a breeze stirred the air, and the lake
was only broken by the tiny ripples that just roughened its glassy
surface. The very water seemed to feel the hush of waiting, and to be
holding itself motionless, like the human life around and upon it.
Then the shouts rang out again, for the signal was given and each shell,
answering to the sudden tension of eight pairs of arms, leaped forward
on its course. The race had begun.
The shells passed the first half-mile post in excellent style.
Ninety-two was leading by a boat-length, and rowing twenty-eight strokes
to the minute. The senior stroke was a little slower, and it was plain
that both crews were reserving their best efforts until farther on in
their course. Keeping pace with them, the carriages drove along up the
shore of the lake, while beyond the course, on the outer side, the
little fleet of boats shifted their positions and moved on, to keep
their favorite crews well in sight. There was little outward show of
enthusiasm as yet, for the course was long, and the boys were saving
their throats for the final demonstration; but they watched with eager
interest the steady rise and fall of the shoulders, the quiet, even play
of the muscles which the light jerseys could not conceal, and the smooth
stroke as the oars struck the water, cut their way through it, then were
feathered in the air, before falling again for the succeeding stroke. In
the meantime, occasional scraps of comment could be heard, tossed from
boat to boat as the groups continually shifted and changed.
“Ninety-two has a fine stroke.”
“Wait till ninety-one gets after her.”
“I’ll wait; ninety-one won’t be in it to-day.”
“Don’t you believe it, she’s only holding off now.”
“The blue’ll have it; she’s more than three lengths ahead.”
“Red’s spurting. There she comes!”
True enough, as they approached the one-mile stake, the seniors
quickened their stroke to thirty to the minute, and little by little
their bow crept forward, lessening their distance by half a length, just
as they reached the second stake.
“Nine-ty-one! Rah! Nine-ty-one! Rah!” answered the friends of the
seniors, in an encouraging shout, while the loyal adherents of
ninety-two sent back the cry,—
“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”
The first mile stake once passed, the crews settled to work in earnest.
Ninety-two still kept the lead, with a long, steady stroke which not
even the occasional spurts of ninety-one could pass. Three lengths, at
the end of the next half-mile, showed that the juniors were more than
holding their own, and made their friends exultant over the prospect of
an easy victory. But the seniors and their friends, whose eyes were
fixed on Captain Howard’s face, felt that the real test had not yet
come; and they were content to wait, for they believed that the juniors
were using their most finished stroke, while ninety-one still held
herself in reserve. Even as they watched, the change came, a change too
slight to catch the attention of any but a trained eye; and as
ninety-one entered on the last half of her second mile, she slowly
gained upon her adversary. Line by line, inch by inch she approached the
leading shell, not a spurt this time, but a steady gain, slow but
resistless, and the crews swept past the second mile stake with but two
and a quarter lengths between.
“Hold your ground, blue!”
“Hurrah for red and ninety-one!”
“Ninety-one gains!”
“She can’t hold out!”
“Ninety-two’s stroke’ll win yet!”
“Ninety-one! Rah!”
But the cries died away again, for the boys were too eager in watching
the straining muscles, the set, resolute faces of their champions, to
waste any thought on mere class cries. Ninety-two was pulling
magnificently, but ninety-one still continued to decrease the distance.
At the end of the next quarter-mile, there was less than a boat-length
between them, and both crews were putting forth their best energies, as
they came sweeping down towards the goal. The next quarter-mile did its
work, and the senior crew were still gaining: a length, three-quarters,
half, one-third, one-eighth, and the crews were side by side with
scarcely ten inches start for the juniors, as they entered upon their
final half-mile, amidst the deafening cries which rose from lake and
shore.
All at once, there came a sudden stillness which turned their jubilant
shouts into a sort of low moan. The junior shell swerved slightly in her
course, and for an instant her speed was checked. The next moment,
ninety-one swept proudly past, leading her by two or three feet as she
righted and resumed her stroke. The change was so sudden, that even the
most distant on-looker realized that some accident had occurred, while
the boys in the nearest boats had seen Frank Osborn’s oar snap in two,
under the strain he had placed upon it.
“Nine-ty-one! Rah! Nine-ty-one! Rah!” shrieked the triumphant seniors,
for they already fancied the prize in their hands. Indeed, it seemed an
impossibility that the junior crew, crippled by the loss of an oar, and
by having to carry the weight of a useless man, could regain its lost
advantage.
No one knew what was to follow.
For one instant, the junior shell lay motionless as Frank Osborn rose,
with a hasty word of warning, turned his handsome, scornful face towards
the senior crew, in one flash of defiance, and then jumped far over the
side of the boat into the cold, blue water below, as the lifted oars
fell again and the lightened shell darted onward, amid the loud cheers
that rose on every side.
The third quarter post of the last mile flashed past them, and
ninety-one was still leading by a half length. Ninety-two had recovered
from her shock and, with thirty-four strokes to the minute, was cutting
the water like a knife, close in the rear, so close that Captain Howard
made a final spurt.
Ninety-two answered with another, gained a little, lost a little, gained
again, and for a second the boats stood bow to bow, and the goal was
close at hand. Not a cry rose from bank or boat; nothing could be heard
but the sound of the oars and the labored breathing of the men, as the
boats swept past the stake, not eighteen inches apart. There was a hush,
as the crowd drew one long, deep breath; and then came roar after roar,
louder and yet more loud,—
“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”
“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”
“O. S. B. O. R. N! Rah! Rah! Rah!”
“_Rah! F. L. E. M. M. I. N. G.! Fszt! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah!_”
“NINE-TY-TWO! RAH! RAH-OH-AH!”
The race was over, and the blue had won. Once more, ninety-two was
triumphant; but the junior captain was not half the hero in the boys’
eyes that Frank Osborn was, when he was landed, dripping, from the boat
which had picked him up, and stowed away in the doctor’s carriage, for a
quick drive homeward in the sunset.
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