THE CANOE MEET.
THE first thing the members of the canoe club did when they sprang out
of bed on the morning of the second day of August, was to run to the
window, draw aside the curtain and take a look at the sky and the lake.
The one was cloudless, and the surface of the other was rippled by a
little breeze which promised, by the time the sun was an hour high, to
freshen into a capital sailing wind. For all the members of the club
were not so deeply interested in the paddle, portage and hurry-skurry
races as Joe Wayring and Tom Bigden were. A few of them were expert
sailors, and anxious to show the spectators (there would be more
strangers among them this year than ever before), how skillfully they
could manage their cranky little boats when they were under canvas.
The young athletes were all in excellent training, and there was not one
among them who did not expect to win a prize of more or less value
during the day. Some of the canoeists had discovered a couple of Yale
college students among the guests at the Mount Airy House, and after a
little urging they had consented to assume the management of affairs,
one as judge and the other as referee. They knew all about the rules of
boating, and Joe Wayring told himself, that Prime and his friends would
have to be smarter than he thought they were if they could play any
tricks under the watchful eyes of those two college men without being
caught in the act.
At an early hour Mr. Wayring’s spacious boat-house, which was to be used
as head-quarters and had been handsomely decorated for the occasion, was
thrown open, and shortly afterward the members of the club began to
arrive. They drew their canoes upon the beach at the side of the
boat-house and disappeared in the dressing-room, where they remained
until the warning blast of a bugle notified them that it was time to
begin operations. Now and then one of them would take a cautious peep
out at the back door and turn around to inform his companions that all
New London had come up to attend the meet; and although they knew that
there were a good many people assembled to witness the sports, they were
all surprised, and not a few of them were made nervous by the scene that
was presented to their gaze when they sprang off the wharf, and ran to
push their canoes into the water. Mr. Wayring’s grounds were crowded
with gayly dressed spectators, who where lounging on the grass or
sitting comfortably under the tents that had been provided for them, and
the lake was covered with sail and row boats, all of which were flying
as many flags as they could find places for.
A mile up the lake the stake-boat was anchored. In it was one of the
judges, who reclined at his ease on a couch of cushions with an awning
over him to keep off the sun. The other judge was Mr. Hastings, who
stood on the wharf to act as starter. The referee’s barge, propelled by
six of the best oarsmen that could be found among the guides, lay off
the wharf, and the police-boats had already cleared the course.
“All you young gentlemen who are to compete in this race draw a number
as you pass, and station yourselves accordingly,” said Mr. Hastings, who
held a small tin box above his head so that the contestants could not
look into it and pick a number instead of taking it at random. “Go down
as far as the leaning tree so as to get a good start, and fill away at
the sound of the bugle, No. 1 taking the outside.”
The first event was a sailing race—two miles with a turn. Those who had
entered for it drew a number from the box, lingered a moment to look at
the swinging silver pitcher and gold-lined goblets, which, with a tray
to hold them, were to go to the boy who sent his canoe first across the
line on the home stretch, and then ran out to launch their canoes and
hoist their sails. There were ten starters, and they made a pretty
picture as they came up the lake before the fresh breeze that was then
blowing, and dashed across the imaginary line that marked the beginning
of the course. Another blast from the bugle warned them that it was a
“go,” and the race was begun.
The sound of the bugle seemed to excite every body—the people on shore
as well as the boys in the boats, who crowded their cranky little crafts
until it looked as if some of them must certainly go over. There were
several of Prime’s friends among the contestants, and Joe and his two
chums wondered if any one of them had been “booked” to come out ahead in
this particular race. They saw nothing to indicate it. There was no
attempt to foul the boy who seemed likely to win, and indeed there was
no chance for any such proceeding. The referee’s barge easily kept
abreast of the racers, and the man in the stake-boat kept his glass
directed toward them from the start. There was some crowding and
confusion at the turn, and some of the little vessels came dangerously
near to one another; but their crews made desperate efforts to clear
themselves, some because they knew they were closely watched, and others
because they were determined to win fairly or not at all, and the race
was not interrupted. It was a close and exciting struggle, and the boy
who brought his Rice Laker first across the line was fairly entitled to
the silver pitcher.
“That was a splendid race,” exclaimed Joe Wayring, as the contestants,
after beaching their canoes, came into the boat-house to listen to the
congratulations, or to receive the sympathy of their friends. “The
paddle race comes off now, and I hope that those of us who take part in
it will make as good a showing as you did.”
While Joe was talking in this way, Ned Stewart, one of the boys who had
just been defeated, drew a few of his friends around him in a remote
corner of the boat-house by intimating to them in a mysterious way that
he had something of importance to say to them.
“Look here, Bigden,” said Ned, in an excited whisper. “I believe it is
understood that some of us are to foul Wayring or any fellow in his
crowd who stands a chance of winning, and give Noble a chance to carry
off the honors of the paddle race?”
“I believe you did make some such arrangement as that,” replied Tom,
indifferently. “But if my memory serves me, you did not consult me in
regard to it.”
These words produced the utmost consternation among the boys in the
corner.
“Are you going back from your word?” cried Noble, as soon as he could
speak.
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Tom.
“You know very well what he means,” exclaimed Bob Lord, who, it will be
remembered, had been “booked” to win the upset race. “Now, look here,
Bigden: You have been running with Wayring a good deal, of late, and we
might have expected this of you. You want Wayring to win because you
think he can do more to get you into the archery club than we can; but I
assure you that you are mistaken there. You can’t get in without our
votes, and if you go back on us we shan’t give them to you.”
“I don’t want Wayring to win,” said Tom, emphatically. “My Cousin Loren
is going to come out at the top of the heap in this race.”
“Well, I’ll bet you a dollar he isn’t,” exclaimed Noble, whose flashing
eyes showed how angry he was. “If I don’t win this race nobody shall.”
“Well, I’ll bet you two dollars that I shall keep pretty close to Loren,
and that the boy who interferes with him purposely will go out of his
canoe in less time than he can say ‘General Jackson’ with his mouth
open. Not only that, but I’ll thrash him the very first time I can catch
him ashore,” replied Tom, returning Noble’s angry scowl with interest,
and doubling up his fists as if he were ready and willing to put his
threat into execution then and there.
“Look here! Look here, boys,” whispered Prime, who was really afraid the
two would come to blows. “Such work as this will never do. If we quarrel
among ourselves, Wayring and his crowd will walk off with all the prizes
as they have always done.”
“I have no intention of quarreling,” said Noble, who did not like the
way Tom glared at him. “I only want Bigden to keep his promise.”
“What promise?” demanded Tom.
“Why, didn’t you say that you were down on Wayring and Hastings, and
that you did not want to see them win any of the races?” inquired Scott.
“I did.”
“And didn’t you promise that you would help _us_ win?” chimed in Frank
Noble.
“No, I didn’t. When you told me what your programme was, I simply said:
‘All right.’ By that I meant that you could do as you pleased, and my
cousins and I would do as _we_ pleased. You were very good to yourselves
when you picked out all the best races for your own men, and left us out
in the cold, were you not? We do not consider that we are under
obligations to abide by any such arrangement, and we shan’t do it. We’ve
got a programme of our own that we mean to carry out if we can, and the
fellow who interferes with us in any way may make up his mind to take
the consequences.”
So saying Tom walked off followed by his cousins, leaving Prime and his
companions lost in wonder.
“Serves us just right for having any thing to do with such upstarts,”
said Noble, who was the first to speak. “They have gone back on us fair
and square; that’s easy enough to be seen.”
“Who ever heard of such impudence?” exclaimed Prime. “They came to Mount
Airy with the idea that they could run the town to suit themselves, and
because they can’t do it, they are mad about it. They must not be
allowed to win a race. I would much rather see Wayring or Hastings come
in first.”
“That brings me to what I wanted to say to you,” said Ned Stewart. “I
don’t know whether or not that college man in the stake-boat suspects
any thing, but he certainly acted like it. He kept his eyes on us from
the time we crossed the line until we got home. If you try to foul any
body you must be very sly about it, or else you will be caught and ruled
out.”
If Stewart had any thing else to say he did not have time to say it, for
just then the bugle sounded another warning, and that put a stop to the
conversation. It was a call to the boys who were to take part in the
paddle race. A few seconds later thirteen active young fellows in showy
uniforms sprang off the wharf one after the other, shoved their canoes
into the water, and paddled away to take the positions assigned them by
the numbers they had drawn from the tin box. As luck would have it, Tom
Bigden found himself near the center of the line, with his Cousin Loren
on one side of him and Frank Noble on the other. Joe Wayring was on the
right, nearest the shore, and Arthur Hastings on the extreme left, near
the middle of the lake.
“It’s a bad outlook for us,” whispered Loren, after he had run his eye
up and down the line. “Joe and Arthur are so far away that you can’t
touch them.”
“Never mind,” replied Tom, in the same cautious whisper. “They will have
to come closer together when we get to the stake-boat, and then,
perhaps, we can do something. Keep your weather eye peeled for Noble.
He’ll spoil your chances if he can. He’s bound to win or kick up a row.”
“Are you all ready?” shouted Mr. Hastings, from his place on the wharf.
There was no response in words, but each boy grasped his double paddle
with a firmer hold, dipped one blade of it into the water and leaned
forward so that he could put all his strength into the first stroke,
which was given before the notes of the bugle had fairly died away.
The thirteen contestants got off well together, and for a while it was
any body’s race; but by the time a quarter of a mile had been passed
over, Arthur Hastings and Roy Sheldon, who “made the pace”, began to
draw to the front, while others fell behind, and when they rounded the
stake-boat the line was very much broken. Tom Bigden did not try to win.
According to the agreement this was not his race. He simply kept close
beside his cousin—he had harder work to do it than he expected to have,
for Loren sent his canoe through the water at an astonishing rate of
speed—holding himself in readiness to frustrate any attempt at trickery
on Frank Noble’s part, or to foul Frank if he showed speed enough to
beat Loren fairly.
How the struggle would have ended, had each boy been as determined to
win or lose on his merits as the majority of them were, it is hard to
tell. Arthur and Roy paddled much faster now than they did on the day
they had those friendly trials with Tom and his cousin, and so did
Loren. Frank Noble, who was by no means an antagonist to be despised,
kept close company with them, while Joe Wayring seemed content to linger
behind and save his wind so that he could force the pace on the way
home; consequently he was an eye-witness to a piece of deliberate
rascality on the part of Tom Bigden, which was so neatly executed that
it might have passed for an accident, if Joe, when questioned by the
judge, had not told the truth concerning it. It came about in this way:
Arthur and Roy rounded the stake-boat together, keeping far enough away
from each other to avoid all danger of a collision. Frank Noble followed
in their wake, and close behind him came Loren Farnsworth, who having
got his “second wind”, was plying his paddle with so much strength and
skill that he was rapidly closing up the gap between himself and his
leaders. Noble saw defeat staring him in the face, and believing that he
could gain a few feet on Hastings and his companion, and throw Loren out
of the race at the same time, he resorted to an expedient which drew a
warning shout from Joe Wayring, who was contentedly following in Tom’s
rear.
“Look out there, Frank!” cried Joe. “You’ll be foul of somebody in a
minute more.”
“I told Tom that Loren Farnsworth should never come out at the top of
the heap in this race, and I meant every word of it,” said Frank, to
himself; and paying no attention to Joe’s warning, he shot his canoe
across Loren’s bow, passing so close to him that the latter was obliged
to stop paddling and back water in order to escape the collision which
for a second or two seemed inevitable.
This was Tom Bigden’s opportunity and he was prompt to improve it. With
a movement so quick and dextrous that it looked like an accident to the
people on shore who witnessed it, Tom unjointed his paddle, dropped one
blade of it overboard, and laying out all his strength on the other, he
swung the bow of his canoe around and sent it crashing into the side of
Noble’s boat, overturning it in an instant and throwing its occupant out
into the water. Then, quick as a flash, Tom backed his canoe out of
Loren’s way and sent it directly in the path of the other boys, who were
thus given their choice between two courses of action: One was to make a
wide detour in order to clear the three boats that lay in their way, and
the other was to give up the race, which was now virtually left to
Hastings, Sheldon and Loren Farnsworth. The most of them preferred to
draw out of a contest in which they had no show of winning, and with
many exclamations of anger and disgust turned about and paddled back to
the starting point; while the others crowded up around the stake-boat to
hear what the judge and referee would have to say about it.
“I claim foul on that!” shouted Tom; and the words and the speaker’s
easy assurance so astonished Joe Wayring, that he sat in his canoe with
his paddle suspended in the air as if he did not know what to do with
it.
“I claim foul!” sputtered Noble, as soon as his head appeared above the
surface of the water. “Bigden capsized me on purpose.”
“I say I didn’t!” cried Tom, looking very surprised and innocent indeed.
“What business had you to try to cross my bows, when any body with half
an eye could see that you had no chance to do it? You declared that if
you didn’t win this race no one else should, and that’s why you got in
my way.”
“And you said that your Cousin Loren was booked to win, if you could
make him do it,” retorted Noble, who had climbed into his canoe and was
rapidly throwing out the water it had shipped in righting. “That’s why
you capsized me. It is a lucky thing for you that you didn’t smash in
the side of my boat as you tried to do. I would have made you pay
roundly for it, if there is law enough in Mount Airy to—”
“That will do,” said the judge, in a tone of authority. “This is not the
place to settle quarrels, and neither am I the one to do it.”
“My paddle got unjointed, and I couldn’t shift from one side to the
other quick enough to keep clear of you,” said Tom.
Meanwhile Hastings, Sheldon and Loren Farnsworth were making fast time
down the home stretch toward the starting point. To the surprise of
every body, and to the no small annoyance of Arthur Hastings, who had
never before been so closely followed by any one except Sheldon and
Wayring, Loren was not only holding his own, but he was gaining at every
stroke. There is no telling which one of the three would have come out
ahead at the finish, had they been permitted to continue the struggle;
but the referee, seeing the commotion among the rest of the fleet,
called out: “No race!” and pulled up to the stake-boat to see what was
the matter. The judge gave him his version of the affair, Noble and Tom
Bigden gave theirs, and each of the two boys would have expressed his
opinion of the other in no very complimentary terms, had not the referee
interrupted them by saying—
“Hard words can’t settle disputes of this kind. The race will have to be
tried over again, and Noble, I don’t think you will be allowed to take
any part in it. You made a mistake in trying to cross Bigden’s bows when
you did, because you had no room to do it without interfering with him.
You threw him out of the contest, and came very near throwing Farnsworth
out, too; consequently it will be my duty to bar you. I am sorry—”
“You needn’t be, for I am sure I don’t care,” replied Noble, rudely. He
tried hard to control himself so that the boys around him should not see
how very angry he was, but his efforts met with little success. To be
ruled out of one contest was to be ruled out of all; and that was a
severe blow to a boy who had confidently expected to carry off some of
the best prizes. “What are you going to do with Bigden?” he asked, or
rather demanded of the referee.
“That depends,” answered the latter, somewhat sharply.
“He can’t do any thing with me because I have violated no rule,” said
Tom, defiantly. “You ran across my path when you had no business to do
it, and an accident to my paddle made me run into you. That’s all there
is of it.”
But the referee and judge seemed to hold a different opinion. They
conversed for a few minutes in tones so low that no one but the guides
could hear what they said, and presently the judge appealed to Joe
Wayring.
“You were close behind Bigden when this happened,” said he. “Do you
think it was an accident?”
“What does he know about it?” cried Tom, fiercely. “I don’t care what he
or anybody else says; I know—”
“One moment, please,” interrupted the referee. “You have had your say,
and you don’t help your side of the case any by showing so much
excitement over it.”
“Do you think Bigden unjointed his paddle purposely?” continued the
judge, addressing himself to Joe.
“Yes, sir,” answered the latter, promptly.
“Do you think he could have kept clear of Noble if he had made use of
ordinary skill and caution?”
“I am sure of it.”
“How could he have done it?”
“By working his paddle on the port side of his canoe. That would have
thrown him around the stake-boat very neatly and given him a winning
place in the race; but instead of that he used his paddle on the
starboard side, and of course that threw the bow of his canoe plump into
Noble’s side.”
Frank and the judge nodded as if to say that that was about the way the
thing stood, and after a few minutes’ reflection the referee said—
“I am perfectly satisfied and will announce my decision where all the
members of the club can hear it. As we are wasting time and delaying the
other sports by staying here, we will go back to head-quarters.”
It was not a very sociable company of boys who turned about at this
command and paddled slowly back to the starting point, and neither were
Noble and Tom Bigden the only ones among them who were mad enough to
fight. Two of their number were so jealous of each other and so anxious
to win prizes, that they had deliberately disgraced the club in the
presence of hundreds of strangers; and it is hard to see how any lover
of fair play could help being annoyed over it. Joe Wayring felt it very
keenly; and consequently when Tom Bigden paddled up alongside and told
him that he intended to get even with him some way for the stand he had
taken, Joe was in just the right humor to give him as good as he sent.
“Joe Wayring, you have made an enemy of me by this day’s work,” said
Tom, in a threatening tone.
“By telling the truth in regard to your fouling of Frank Noble?”
exclaimed Joe. “I don’t care if I have. I saw the whole proceeding, and
I know that you meant to do it. I warned you that any boy who could so
far forget himself as to deliberately interfere with another, would be
forever ruled out of the club’s races, and you will find that I knew
what I was talking about.”
“You might as well expel me and be done with it?” exclaimed Tom,
angrily. “What’s the use of my belonging to the club if I am not allowed
to take part in its contests? Joe Wayring, there’s no honor about you.
You have led me to believe that you were my friend, and then you went
back on me the very first chance you got.”
“Do you mean that I have been sailing under false colors?” cried Joe,
indignantly. “If you throw out any more insinuations of that sort before
we reach the boat-house I’ll dump you in the lake. When the judge
questioned me I told him the truth; and I wouldn’t have done otherwise
to please any body.”
Something must have warned Tom that Joe would be as good as his word,
for he had nothing more to say to him. He gradually fell behind and
allowed him to paddle down to the boat-house in peace.