A RACE AND AN INTERRUPTION
The days and the weeks passed, and the gallant _Columbia_ kept steadily
upon her course. They had now passed longitude 150° east of Greenwich,
and were but a short distance north of the Ladrones, while the Farallon
de Pajaros, Captain Ponsberry calculated, would be sighted within the
next forty-eight hours, providing the wind did not fall.
The _Columbia_, up to this time, had been making a quick passage, but
now, with the going down of that heavy and hot sun, the wind died out
utterly, and on the following day the sails flapped idly against the
masts, and everything came to a standstill.
“We are in for a calm now,” remarked Striker. “I knowed we was bound to
come next to it sooner or later.”
“Never mind,” replied Larry, ever ready to look upon the cheerful side.
“When it does blow, it will come so much the stronger.”
“Yes, and then we’ll run the risk of having a mast taken out,” grumbled
Hobson, who could endure almost anything but standing still. “Give me a
good steady breeze every trip.”
The men hung around here and there, or lay in the coolest spots they
could find, dozing or sleeping. The only sound that broke the stillness
was the voice of Jeff, as he prepared meals and sang his plantation
melodies. He had one song in particular, relating the mishaps of “My
Gal Susannah!” which he seemed to be never weary of repeating. The
darky was the only one satisfied to let the calm take care of itself.
Olan Oleson had kept his distance, and it really began to look as
though the lesson Striker had given the fellow had done some good. But
the burly Norwegian had not forgotten, for such was not his nature.
Secretly he was plotting to strike both Larry and his Yankee friend a
most dastardly blow.
Striker sat in front of the forecastle, his legs under him, in the
fashion of a tailor. He had a score of bits of wood about him, and
was engaged in whittling out the model of a boat with his jack-knife.
Not far away rested Larry, a big book on his lap, which the boy was
reading with great eagerness. The book was entitled “Naval Heroes of
History,” and contained accounts of the stirring battles fought by
Nelson, Perry, Jones, and other celebrities. The Rev. Martin Wells had
loaned him the volume, and he was reading aloud to Striker.
“My, but I wish I had been there!” he cried, as he finished the account
of the famous fight between the _Serapis_ and the _Bonhomme Richard_.
“How proud Paul Jones must have felt at that victory. And at such close
quarters!”
“We’ll have no such fighting any more,” answered Luke Striker. “The old
wooden vessels are gone, and with ships built of steel, and armed with
guns that can hit the enemy six or seven miles off, it’s not likely
there will be any hand-to-hand, rough and tumble work. It’s reduced to
a science, as the parson would call it.”
“Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar was the greatest victory known to naval
history,” put in Hobson, who had come up in time to hear the talk. “No,
I don’t say it because I’m an Englishman, but because it’s a fact. He
had a splendid fleet of ships, it is true, but he had the combined
fleets of France and Spain against him, and the way he went at them
and smashed them up from the very start of the fight is something for
every sailor to remember as long as the world goes round. The only bad
thing about it was that he was shot down in the very thick of it and
killed.”
“Yes, this book tells about that, and how England has honored Nelson,
too,” said Larry. “And such a man deserves to be honored.”
“There ain’t no telling how our modern battleships are going to pull
through in a fight,” said Striker. “Although England and America and
France and Germany and Spain and some of the other countries have ’em,
they ain’t been put into active use. I’ve been told the Chinese and
Japanese used some of ’em during their late war, but them heathens
don’t count――not alongside o’ Anglo-Saxon blood; eh, Hobson?”
“I grant you that, every time, Striker,――Anglo-Saxon blood every
trip,――against the world,” cried the Englishman, heartily. “Now you
take it among ourselves,” he went on, after a pause. “The Americans and
English and Germans, and even the French, can get along together; but
put a Spaniard or a Portuguese or an Italian, or one of that kind of
fellows aboard and there’s trouble right away――I’ve seen it a hundred
times.”
“You might add the Norwegians to the off crowd,” put in Larry, glancing
to where Olan Oleson sat sullenly chewing his quid of plug-cut.
Hobson laughed and tossed his head. “I would willingly if they were all
like yonder chap. But they are not――I’ve known Norwegians as fair and
square as any of us.”
“We’ll let him alone, so long as he lets us alone,” rejoined Striker.
“What’s up, Cal?” he added, as the boatswain approached.
“The captain says as how if any of you want to take a swim now is your
chance,” said the boatswain of the _Columbia_. “We’ll put the jollyboat
out and lower the sails, and them as wants to can stay out till
sundown.”
“Hurrah!” cried Larry, closing his book and springing up. “A swim will
just suit me. Come on, Striker, and let’s get at the sails at once.”
The majority of the crew were willing to do anything to break the
monotony, and soon the sails were furled and the yawl swung over and
allowed to drift astern, with a couple of pairs of oars placed athwart
the seats, in case it should prove necessary to row out to anybody
seized with a cramp. There were a number of old bathing-suits aboard,
and soon Larry had donned one of these.
“Here goes!” he cried, rushing to the rail. For a moment he stood
erect, his hands over his head. Then with a graceful curve he went
down, cutting the water like a knife, and disappearing with hardly
a splash beneath the bluish-green surface. A few seconds later Luke
Striker followed, and then came half a dozen others in a bunch,
shrieking, laughing and sporting like so many overgrown boys; for when
your true sailor is out for a lark, he never thinks of his age, no
matter how old he may be.
The water was warm and refreshing, and never had Larry enjoyed a swim
more. He dived half a dozen times, from the yawl, and then challenged
Striker to a race around the _Columbia_, which lay nearly stationary in
the swells of the ocean.
“All right, I’ll beat ye out of your butes!” cried the Yankee, and
splash! splash! both left the yawl at the same instant, and the race
began. Captain Ponsberry, standing at the stern, saw what was going on
and shouted in approval.
“Go on, both of ye!” he cried. “A prize to the fellow as wins! Striker,
the boy will beat ye unless you use your long arms better than that.
Now then, both do your level best, and remember to swim clear o’ the
bow!”
“It’s Striker’s race,” cried the boatswain, who was also in the water.
“It stands to reason the man will win.”
“I’ll wager you a plug of tobacco the boy comes out ahead,” answered
Hobson. “See what a splendid stroke he’s making――I never saw a better,
even on the Thames!”
“Let us follow!” cried another, and this all did, but keeping at a safe
distance, so as not to interfere with the racers. Mr. Wells had come
upon deck and was as much interested as anybody. He shouted loudly to
Larry, and the boy heard him, looked up a brief instant, and smiled.
For the first quarter of the distance Larry took the lead and kept it.
His stroke was not so long as that of Striker, but it was quicker, and
he was, moreover, using his feet to the best possible advantage. But
now, as the pair neared the bow of the _Columbia_, the Yankee sailor
began to pull up.
“I’m a-comin’, lad!” he puffed. “It’s a pity I’ve got to beat ye, but
it can’t be helped――I can’t afford to lose my reputation as a swimmer
among the boys.”
“I’m not beaten yet, and I don’t mean to be,” laughed Larry, “and I’m
not going to lose my wind talking,” he added, and became silent.
On and on they went, each riding lightly over swell after swell, until
the bow was gained. Heeding the captain’s warning, Larry gave it a
berth of several feet, and Striker did the same. But the man was now
close at hand, and a few additional strokes put him several feet in
advance.
“Striker’s ahead!”
“Go it, Larry; don’t let him beat you!”
“The best man wins, and it’s a new pair of pants he gets as a reward!”
cried Captain Ponsberry, and held up the garment mentioned――a pair
picked up on the ship many months before with no owner coming forward
to claim them. “I think they’ll most fit ye, Larry, so put in your best
licks for ’em!”
“Stretch ’em out to fit me, cap’n!” cried Striker, “for they’ll be mine
when this race is over; stretch ’em out!” And a laugh went up at the
Yankee’s words.
The lank sailor was now two yards ahead, and the yawl was less than
thirty yards off. In vain Larry tried to increase his stroke, the
distance between him and his opponent remained the same.
“Go it, Larry, go!” cried Hobson. “Give me your foot, and I’ll give you
a shove!”
“Hi! hi! no foul play back there!” roared Striker. “This race is to
be won on its merits. Now, then, for the wind up!” and he renewed his
efforts.
But he was almost winded, for the race had been a stiff one from the
start, and he was not used to exerting himself in the water. On the
other hand, Larry was still fresh, and had taken part in several
swimming matches before. The boy renewed his efforts to overtake his
opponent, and now, as the yawl drew closer, he slowly but surely crept
up.
“See, see! Russell is gaining!” cried Tom Grandon, from the taffrail.
“He’ll win out, after all!” echoed the Rev. Martin Wells, who was quite
excited. The race made him think of his college days, ten years gone by.
On and on the pair in the water continued to go, until the yawl, rising
and falling with the swell, was less than fifteen feet away. Striker
was still a yard ahead and pushing forward like a blown porpoise. Larry
continued to diminish the distance between them.
“Hurry up, Larry, and you’ll make it yet!” cried Grandon.
And Larry did hurry, putting forth every ounce of muscle that remained.
His head was now up to Striker’s knees, and now he made a last
desperate plunge and drew up alongside of the Yankee. A yell arose on
every side.
“They are even!”
“Go it, both of you!”
And go it they did; but Striker was doing his best, and Larry also, and
neither could increase his speed. Up they shot to the yawl, and two
hands went up to the gunwale simultaneously.
“It’s a tie!”
“Both have won!”
“That’s the best race I’ve seen in a good――”
Bang! crash! the words of the last speaker were drowned in a noise as
unexpected as it was dismaying. The yawl was seen to rise in the air,
which was instantly filled with flying splinters, and Larry and Striker
disappeared like a flash from view.