A SCALP-HUNTING DISAPPOINTMENT
"Want to try us out, Gridley?" hailed Big Chief Hartwell, from the
Preston High School canoe.
It was nearly ten o'clock the next morning, but Dick & Co. had
just finished putting their camp to rights after breakfast, for
they had slept late after the feast.
"Do we want to try you out?" Dick answered laughingly. "Why,
we don't have to do that. We shall be ready to hand you a beating,
though, at any time you ask for it. We can't help beating you,
you know. It's the Gridley way!"
"Brag is a good dog," derided Brown from the bow seat of the Preston
canoe.
"We keep both dogs here," Dave shouted tantalizingly.
"Are you coming out to wallop us?" Hartwell insisted.
"Yes; if you insist upon it," Dick agreed. "But we don't like
to do it."
"Get into your canoe and come out and see how much of your brag
you can make good," was Hartwell's calm reply.
"What? Now?" Prescott inquired.
"'Now' is always the best time to do a thing," declared Mason,
of Preston High School.
"Oh, no," smiled Dick, with a shake of his head. "You fellows
have been out for some time this morning. You'll have to give
us time to warm up properly."
"I didn't suppose Gridley needed a little thing like that," Hartwell
taunted. "You Gridleyites are such sure winners, you know, that
you ought not to need such a little thing as preparation."
"One of the reasons why Gridley wins," Dick retorted, "is that
we always use common sense when entering sporting events. So
we'll ask you to oblige us with a gift of our rights in the matter.
In fifteen minutes we'll be ready for you."
Gently the canoe was launched in the water. Harry, with a remembrance
of yesterday's events, called Towser, saying sternly:
"Stay right here, boy, and watch. Maybe you'll get the rest of
Rip's shirt to-day."
"And maybe he won't," chuckled Dave. "That's what I call holding
out false hopes to a dog. Rip won't venture within five miles
of here to-day. Yet perhaps Towser will bag some other game for
us."
"Into the canoe with you, you loitering braves!" called Big Chief
Prescott firmly.
Away went the Gridley war canoe, gliding smoothly.
"Our craft is the 'Pathfinder'," called Hartwell, across the water.
"What do you call your boat?"
"The 'Scalp-hunter'," smiled Dick. As a matter of fact he and
his friends had forgotten to name the canoe, but he supplied the
name on the spur of the moment. It made a prompt hit with his
chums.
"You don't believe you can win any race with such paddling as
yours, do you?" Hartwell called derisively.
"We don't show all our fine points to the enemy until the battle
is on," was Prescott's amiable answer. "Even then you won't see
all our best tricks; you'll be too busy paddling to keep in sight
of us."
Only very gradually did Dick allow his crew to warm up to their
work. The Preston boys soon paddled over to the middle of the
lake, and there lay resting.
"Now, we'll go back and give them a brush," Dick murmured to his
chums. "Don't exceed any orders that I give in the brush. Don't
be at all uneasy if we find the Prestons going ahead of us."
"Haven't we got to win?" queried Dave.
"Especially after all the brag we've been throwing in their
direction?" Tom supplemented.
"We'll win if we can do it easily," Dick answered. "Otherwise
we won't."
"Then what becomes of our Gridley talk?" asked Greg.
"The difference is that this isn't a real race to-day," Prescott
explained. "This is only a brush, and we're in it only to see
what the Preston boys can show us about canoe handling."
At a rather slow, easy dip, the "Scalp-hunter" ranged up near
the "Pathfinder."
"All ready there, Gridley?" called Hartwell rather impatiently.
"As ready as we're going to be," said Dick.
"Flying start, or from a stop?"
"Either," Dick nodded.
"Then," proposed Hartwell, "move along until your prow is flush
with ours. When I give the word both crews paddle for all they're
worth. Steer for the two blasted pines at the lower end of the
lake."
"That's good," Dick agreed.
Very gently the war canoe ranged alongside, her bark sides,
well-oiled, glistening in the sunlight. The Preston canoe was not
of bark, but of cedar frame, covered with canvas.
Hartwell evidently wanted a wholly fair race, for he even allowed
the "Scalp-hunter's" prow the lead of a couple of feet before
he shouted:
"Go it!"
Amid a great flashing of paddles the two canoes started. The
Preston High School craft soon obtained a lead of a foot or so,
and held it. Now the contest was a stubborn one. Gridley gained
two feet more.
"You see," called Dick in a low voice, "this is the Gridley way."
"Is it?" Hartwell inquired. "Hanky-pank!"
Plainly enough the last two words were a signal. Though the Preston
High School boys did not make much visible change in their style
or speed of dip, the "Pathfinder" now gained perceptibly. Within
a minute she had a lead of a clean ten feet, and seemed likely
to increase the interval.
"Why don't you come along, Gridley?" called back the big chief
in the leading canoe.
"Too early," smiled Dick. Nor did he allow the Gridley boys to
increase their speed. Presently the "Pathfinder" led by two lengths.
"Why didn't you tell us," Hartwell demanded over his shoulder,
"that the much vaunted Gridley way is 'way to the rear?"
"We haven't reached the pines yet, have we?" Dick asked.
"No; and you won't, to-day, unless you push that clumsy tub of
yours along faster."
"Don't wait for us," Dick answered goodnaturedly. "We'll be here
after a little while."
"We'll wait for you when we land," laughed Hartwell. "Mumble
bumble!"
Another secret signal, surely, for again the "Pathfinder" began
to increase the distance from the Gridley rival.
"We'd better stop, and pretend we're only fishing," muttered Tom
Reade, but Dick kept grimly silent. He was watching every move
of the Preston paddlers.
"Why, they're leading us four lengths," muttered Darrin, in an
undertone. But Prescott appeared unworried.
"We'll try to brace our speed, by and by," Dick answered.
"And so will the other fellows," Tom surmised. "They're not going
at anything like their pace as yet."
For a quarter of a mile the canoes held the same relative position.
"Now, liven up," Dick called softly. "One, two, three, four!
One, two, three, four!"
Catching the rhythm, Dick & Co. put in some good strokes, their
paddling becoming faster and stronger. A length and a half of
the interval was closed up.
"Porky-poo!" ordered Hartwell.
Answering, the Preston High School boys paddled as though fury
now possessed them. They held the pace, too.
"Hit it up hard, now," Dick commanded. "One, two, three, four!"
Never had Gridley responded more nobly on any field of sport or
other contest than now. The paddles flew, their wet blades gleaming
in the air, only to disappear under the water again. Each recovery
was swift, prompt rhythmic!
But Hartwell's crew was also showing the stuff of which it was
made.
"Stop paddling---back water!" shouted Hartwell finally.
The "Pathfinder" lay on the water, motionless, only two yards
from the shore on which stood the blasted pines.
At that same instant the Gridley High School "Scalp-hunter" was
a trifle more than seven lengths astern.
"That was good and warming," smiled Big Chief Dick, as the second
canoe came up.
"Yah, yah, yah!" retorted the Preston High School boys, betraying
their delight in derisive grins.
"Where is that wonderful, all-conquering way you were telling
us about?" chaffed Hartwell.
"You'll find out when we race," smiled Prescott calmly.
"When we race?" repeated Preston's big chief. "Didn't we race
just now? Or do you consider that it wasn't a race just because
you weren't in it?"
"It wasn't a race," Dick answered. "Merely a brush."
"Brush?" repeated Hartwell indignantly. "Didn't we challenge
you fellows, and didn't you accept? Also, didn't you lose?"
"We lost the brush," Dick admitted.
"You lost the race to us," Hartwell declared stoutly. "Preston
High School beat Gridley High School by several lengths!"
"Hardly that," Dick retorted coolly. "Preston High School merely
distanced some boys from Gridley High School. You didn't defeat
a Gridley High School canoe crew."
"Why didn't we?" the Preston High School big chief questioned.
"Because, if you recall all the chat we had last night, the
'Scalp-hunter's' crew isn't yet official. We haven't been
authorized by the Athletic Council of Gridley High School."
"Is that the way you get out of it?" blurted Hartwell.
"No," Dick smiled. "That's the way we get Gridley High School
out of the charge of defeat. As soon as we're authorized to represent
Gridley High School as an official canoe crew, then you may claim
any victory you can obtain over us. But you haven't beaten our
high school yet for the reason that we don't officially represent
Gridley High School. Isn't that all clear?"
"I suppose so," Hartwell assented disappointedly. "But we took
it that we were racing the Gridley High School Canoe Club."
"Then after this you want to do more thinking," Dick laughed.
"But don't feel too disappointed, Preston. Just as soon as we
receive sanction from our Athletic Council we'll give you a race
in earnest, and a chance for all the glory you are able to take
away from us."
There was some further good-natured talk, after which the two
canoe clubs separated.
Dick guided the "Scalp-hunter" back to camp. There, as soon as
the canoe had been hauled ashore, Dave Darrin threw himself on
the grass, remarking:
"This morning teaches us something! We're in no class with those
Preston High School boys. We've no business racing, in the name
of our school, before next summer!"