"DINKY-BAT! HOT SAIL!"
"Captain Prescott, what is wrong with your boat?" demanded Referee
Tyndall, as the judges' launch stole up close.
"Something seems to be wrong with us, I'll admit, sir," Dick made
answer. "I'll be greatly obliged to you, sir, if you'll tell me
what it is.
"What are you towing?" asked the referee bluntly.
"Towing?" repeated Dick in bewilderment.
"That's what I asked," repeated the referee. "When you came down
on this last spurt I'm sure that at one moment I saw a length
of line rise above the water astern of you. Then, further back,
I saw something else jerked to the surface."
"Why, we can't be towing anything," Dick insisted. "You saw our
canoe launched."
"Late start, if you don't line the canoes up at once, referee,"
warned the time-keeper.
But Mr. Tyndall had his own views.
"The starting time will be delayed," he announced sharply. "Captain
Prescott, take your canoe to the landing stage."
"All right, sir."
"Captain Hartwell you will follow."
"Very good, sir."
Going in to the landing stage Dick gave his crew an easy pace,
yet they were soon alongside the float.
"Now, take your canoe out of water, Gridley," commanded the referee,
stepping ashore from the launch. "I want a look at the craft."
Dick & Co. lifted the war canoe to the float bow first. Just
as the stern cleared the water a cry went up from scores of throats.
For the referee had grasped a line made fast to the bottom of
the canoe near the stern.
Hauling on that line he brought in several yards of it---then,
at the outer end of the line came a light blanket, dripping.
Through the middle of the blanket the end of the line had been
secured.
Dick Prescott gasped. His chums rubbed their eyes. Bob Hartwell,
who had landed, looked on in utter consternation.
"For the love of decency!" gasped Referee Tyndall. "Who rigged
on a drag like that."
The blanket, towing below the surface, was a drag that could be
depended upon, perhaps, to delay the canoe at least one length
in every dozen that her crew could put her through the water.
"None of our fellows did that trick," Dick declared hotly. "You
saw us launch our canoe, Mr. Referee, and she was clear when
we launched her."
"I naturally wouldn't suspect the Gridley crew of rigging a drag
on the Gridley canoe," remarked the referee dryly, as he followed
the line back to the canoe. "See! Some scoundrel managed to
twist a screw-eye into one of your frame timbers underneath.
The line is made fast to the screw-eye. Captain Prescott, that
could have been done by someone hidden under this float while
your craft lay alongside. He could bring his mouth above water,
under the timbers of this float. Then, with his hand and arm
hidden under water the same rascal could easily reach out and
fasten in the screw-eye."
"Prescott," gasped Bob Hartwell, in a disgusted voice, "I hope
you don't believe that any of our fellows, or their friends, could
be guilty of such contemptible work!"
"Hartwell," Dick answered promptly, resting a hand on the arm
of the Preston High School boy, "I am offended that you should
believe us capable of suspecting Preston High School of anything
as mean as this. Of course we don't suspect Preston High School!"
The referee himself now twisted the screw-eye out of its bed in
the canoe frame. Then he gathered up the wet cord and blanket
and hurled the whole mass shoreward.
"I'd pay twenty-five dollars out of my own pocket," the race official
declared hotly, "for proof against the scoundrel who tried to
spoil clean sport in this manner!"
Nearly all of the crowd of spectators had now surged down close
to the float.
"I think we could make a pretty good guess at who is behind this
contemptible business," snarled Danny Grin, his face, for once,
darkened by a threatening frown.
"Who did it?" challenged Referee Tyndall. Dalzell opened his
mouth, but Prescott broke in sharply with the command:
"Be silent, Dan! Don't mention a name when you haven't proof."
"Can it possibly be anyone from Preston?" asked Hartwell anxiously.
"If it is, I beg you, Dalzell, to let me have the name---privately,
if need be. I'd spend the summer running down this thing."
"I know whom Dalzell has in mind, Hartwell," Dick rejoined. "It's
no one from within a good many miles of Preston, either. But
we have no right to make accusation without an iota of proof."
"Then you decline to allow the name to be furnished?" blurted
the referee.
"I refuse, sir, for the same reason that you would," Dick answered
coolly. "Only a coward, a knave or a fool will accuse another
person without some reasonable proof to offer. No great harm
has been done, anyway. The drag was found in time."
"Get your canoe out, Hartwell," ordered Mr. Tyndall. "This time,
when we launch them, we'll make sure that both craft are in good
order."
When the "Pathfinder" was hauled up on the float she was found
to be free from any evidences of trickery.
"Now, launch, and we'll watch each canoe until it puts off," announced
Mr. Tyndall. "Captain Prescott, will ten minutes be enough for
you before the sounding of the first gun?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'd rather you gave Gridley plenty of time, sir," urged Bob Hartwell.
"If we can't win from Gridley High School fairly, we don't want
to win at all."
"First gun, then, at three-twenty-eight," called Mr. Tyndall.
"Second gun at three-thirty."
Slowly the "Pathfinder" followed the "Scalp-hunter" out into midlake.
"How does your craft go now, Gridley?" hailed the big chief from
Preston.
"She goes like a canoe now," Dick called back joyously.
Then he set his chums to easy paddling. All six of Dick & Co.
felt a thrill of joy at realizing the difference in the canoe's
behavior.
"We'll win, all right," predicted Prescott joyously.
"If we don't, we'll make motions that look like putting up a hard
fight, anyway," Tom answered him.
"I wish I had my foot on the neck of the cur that rigged the drag!"
muttered Darrin vindictively.
"I don't," Dick answered quietly. "The fellow who rigged the
drag probably wasn't the same fellow who planned the scheme."
"I'm going to provoke a fight with a certain party, one of these
days, anyway," threatened Dave, his brow dark with anger.
"Forget it now," Dick urged. "The fellow whose mind is ruled
by an angry passion isn't in the best form for athletic work.
Banish all unpleasant thoughts, all of you fellows."
By degrees the big chief from Gridley warmed up his braves in
the war canoe. He had them going in earnest, at nearly their
best speed, just as the first gun was fired---a pistol in the
hand of the starter on board the judges' boat.
"We'll go over there in our best style," Prescott called. "Try
to give the people on shore something worth looking at---they've
waited long enough to see something! One, two, three, four!
One, two, three, four!"
In absolute precision the Gridley High School boys moved at their
work, their swift, deft, strong strokes sending the birch bark
craft darting over the water in a fashion that brought a cheer
from shore.
"Deep breathing just as soon as we're at rest at the line," Dick
warned his chums. "At the start try to make the first breath
carry you for four strokes!"
In a short time the referee had the canoes with their noses at
the line, and at an interval from each other satisfactory to him.
"Thirty seconds to the start!" called the time-keeper. "Twenty
seconds!"
In the Gridley canoe each boy sat bent slightly forward, his paddle
raised at the proper position.
"Ten seconds!" called the starter. Then-----
Bang! Away shot the canoes. Over all other sounds could be heard
Dick's low-toned:
"One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!"
The Preston boys heard him, and Dick noted, with amusement, that
they unconsciously adapted their own stroke to his count.
"Cut that numeral business," grunted Bob Hartwell, across the
water. "You're queering our fellows."
"They mustn't listen to our signals," Dick laughed back. "One,
two, three, four!"
"Come on, fellows; get ahead of that Gridley crowd, where we can't
hear 'em," urged Hartwell. "Hanky pank!"
At that the Preston canoe managed to get a slight lead. Dick
did not vary his count, however. He had no objection to being
led slightly to the upper buoy.
Soon, however, Preston High School made the distance two lengths.
Dick began to count a bit faster.
"Put a little more steam on, fellows," he urged.
So the gap was closed up somewhat. But Hartwell, glancing back,
called:
"Mumbleby hoptop!"
Whatever that signal meant the Preston boys were now paddling
a stronger and slightly swifter stroke. Dick, too, increased
the stroke.
Despite it all, however, Preston was now securing more and more
of a lead by almost imperceptible gains. Dave Darrin, in the
bow seat of the war canoe, eyed the water interval between the
two canoes with a frowning glance.
"More steam!" Dick urged. As the Gridley canoe went creeping
up on the rival craft, Hartwell muttered another of his ridiculous
code signals.
"Preston hasn't let itself out yet, and we're next door to panting
already," Tom Reade told himself, with a sinking heart. "We were
fools to enter as a school crew without more practice!"
At this time Dick Prescott was the only one in the war canoe who
serenely ignored all doubts. Of course he couldn't be sure that
he would win. In fact, all the chances appeared against him.
But the absurd habit, as it seemed to others, of feeling that
Gridley could not be beaten, was strong upon him.
More than half way to the upper buoy Preston High School led by
more than two lengths.
"Get on, Gridley! Get on! Do something!" came the distant yet
distinct yells from shore. Many spectators, in carriages, or
on bicycles, were following the rival crews.
"Prescott, what ails you?" came a wailing cry from shore.
There were other discouraging calls, too. Had Dick been less
strong in his faith in Dick & Co. he might have gone to pieces
under the nagging.
Bob Hartwell, glancing smilingly back over one shoulder, saw the
Gridley boys working.
"We've got 'em stung, fellows," called the Preston High School
big chief to his crew. "Take it easy, but don't let 'em gain
anything. We won't try to increase the lead until we're on the
last half of the home stretch."
A hundred and fifty yards from the upper buoy Dick passed the
word:
"Now, hump a bit. We want to worry 'em as we get to the buoy.
Make it hot for Preston! One, two, three, four!"
Some of that distance was covered. As Preston rounded the buoy
Hartwell and his crew came face to face with Gridley, about to
round it.
"One, two, three, four!" almost drawled Dick. He had already
passed the signal to his own men, not one of whom obeyed his slow
count, but on the other hand, Preston High School for the space
of about fifteen seconds, slowed to that crawling count.
"Brace up, you dubs! Paddle!" roared Hartwell. "Never mind that
funeral march. Dipperty-dip!"
Preston recovered from its brief trance and shot ahead. But Gridley
was already around the buoy and coming fast.
Half way home from the upper buoy found Preston going strongly,
two and a half lengths ahead of Gridley High School.
"Oh, you, Prescott, get up and run!" came the dismal, desperate
advice from shore.
As he mentally measured the distance, now, to the finishing line,
Dick Prescott's eyes flashed.
"Now, your reserve power, fellows!" he called in a low, tense
voice. "Make every stroke count! Full muscle! Never mind your
backs! One, two, three, four!"
A splendid showing Gridley made. Soon the lead of the rivals
was less than two lengths.
"Steam-ho!" called Hartwell. "Hot sail!"
Preston's paddles flashed in the sunlight in unison, in the best,
swiftest stroke they had yet shown. Over on shore the Preston
boosters let their lungs loose in cheering yells.
"Wait for a tugboat, Prescott!"
"You're up against the real thing, Gridley!"
"Come on in, Hartwell! The other canoe is tied to the shore!"
"More steam!" ordered Dick. "More steam! Your best, prize winning
stroke now."
Again Hartwell glanced backward. Now the prow of the war canoe
was less than half a length from the stern of the Preston craft.
Up and up it came. Hartwell, in a burst of energy, shouted his
prize signal:
"Dinky-bat! Hot sail!"
The new spurt carried Preston High School ahead once more.