THE SPEARING OF THE STURGEON.
There were to be three heats in the contest. One having already gone to
the Eagles, it behooved the Hawks to exert themselves to the uttermost
to even matters up. The short rest at the float had done them good.
During the breathing spell, the sturgeon had once more been towed out by
Bartley Holmes, and now lay bobbing temptingly, awaiting the young
harpooners. Freeman Hunt’s crew, rowing with unwise desperation, were
the first at the mark this time. The “sturgeon” gave an awkward wallow
and vanished from view for a breath, as Hunt’s harpoon flashed through
the air and sank deep into it. An encouraging cheer went up from the
shore. Hunt grinned confidently, as Dale Harding ordered his rowers to
speed off with their prey.
But Rob’s boat was almost upon the sturgeon as Hunt’s harpoon sank into
it. Tautening every muscle the boy hurtled his weapon, less then a
second later. But the steel point, instead of sinking in, merely grazed
the bobbing, yielding object, and shot into the water with a splash.
“W-e-l-l!”
An ironical groan came from the Hawks’ supporters ashore. The success of
the Pink Bird’s patrol encouraged them.
“What did I tell you!” shouted Hunt triumphantly, as Rob, without any
expression of anger or chagrin crossing his features, proceeded to haul
in his harpoon.
Rob made no reply. Instead he turned to Merritt.
“All the ginger you can, old man,” he said quietly, as the Hawks’ boat
dashed off at top speed, towing the captured sturgeon behind them.
Already they were two or three boat lengths ahead of the Eagles.
“Fathom! Fathom!” shouted Rob suddenly.
His keen eyes had noticed that the Hawks’ boat had not paid out line to
the fathom mark, which was indicated by a bit of red rag tied in the
harpoon rope. Instead, they were towing their quarry quite close to
their stern.
“It’s out!” shouted back Dale Harding, a flash of defiance in his eye,
but the referee’s voice cut in.
“Fathom there! Pay out your line!” he ordered sharply.
Rather sulkily Dale obeyed. This gave Rob another chance. Poising
himself carefully, he threw once more. This time his cast landed in the
wooden back, but the distance was so great that much of the force of the
cast was lost. The steel point of the harpoon hung quiveringly in not
more than an inch of wood.
“Yah-h-h-h-h!” yelled the Hawkites disgustedly.
“Good for you, Blake!” came a roar from the Eagle supporters.
“A spurt. Pull, you beggars!” yelled Dale suddenly.
The Hawks’ craft shot forward. Dale’s sharp eyes had seen that Rob’s
spear had only lodged lightly in the “fish,” whereas Hunt’s harpoon was
firmly embedded. The move was successful. As the lines tautened, Rob’s
harpoon point was jerked out of the “sturgeon.” With a shout, the Hawks
shot forward for their float.
“W-e-l-l!” yelled the Hawks’ crowd ashore, in further ironical
astonishment.
“Hard luck!” encouraged Merritt from the stern, as Rob hauled in. “Try
again.”
“All right, if you fellows will put me alongside. I guess all my fingers
have turned to thumbs,” rejoined Rob. Not a trace of anger over his
failure to spear the fish revealed itself. He seemed as sunny and
good-natured as ever.
The Eagles gave way with a will. They would need every ounce of their
muscle and reserve force if they were to overtake the seemingly
victorious Hawks. But with leaps and bounds, the Eagle boat came upon
the other a few hundred feet from the base line. Again Rob cast, and
again he missed—but this time there was a reason. As his harpoon had
launched through the air, Harding had given the line attached to the
“sturgeon” a slight tug. Light as it was, however, it was sufficient to
pull the floating target out of the harpoon reach.
“Foul!” shouted Merritt angrily, from the stern of the Eagles’ boat. He,
too, apparently, had seen the action of Dale, and instantly called the
attention of the referee to it. Bartley Holmes was paddling near by, and
immediately came alongside.
“What’s the trouble?” he demanded.
“Why, Dale Harding jerked the rope just as Rob cast,” explained Merritt.
“Mustn’t they be penalized for a foul?”
“It was an accident!” cried Harding, turning rather white under his tan.
“I was stooping down to fix a toggle pin and maybe I accidentally
touched the line. I don’t believe, though, it made any difference.”
“If you touched the line at all, you infringed on a rule,” declared the
referee. Then to Rob:
“Do you wish to claim this heat on a foul?”
“No, sir,” rejoined Rob instantly. “If it was an accident, that’s good
enough for me. We don’t wish to take advantage of anything like that.”
“All right. Go ahead, then.”
The Hawks’ boat shot forward, and before Rob could gather up his line
and coil it for another throw, they had towed the “sturgeon” across
their base line.
Instantly from human throats, auto horns, and launch whistles a great
uproar arose. While it was at its height, Bartley Holmes once more towed
out the sturgeon, and placed it in position for the third and decisive
struggle.
“We’ve got to win this final,” Hunt found time to whisper to Harding,
while the boats changed bases. “If we capture it, we put the Hawks on
top for the winter. If we lose it, we’ll have to take second place.”
“We’ll win it,” Dale assured him positively.
“It won’t be my fault if we don’t,” rejoined Hunt. Victory affected him
as much as defeat. His cheeks were now flushed with a color that was not
all caused by exertion. He openly triumphed over the Eagles as they
rowed past.
The final did not open with the dash that had marked the two other
heats. Both crews were evidently conserving their efforts for what they
felt was to be a severe struggle. In fact, neither boat appeared in any
hurry to reach the mark. Both coxswains contented themselves with
keeping bow and bow, eyeing each other warily, however, on the alert for
any unexpected move on the part of their rivals.
As before, it was Hunt’s harpoon that first found a resting place. But
as it settled in the wood, Rob’s weapon flashed silverly, and skillfully
fell so that his line was drawn across the shaft of the Hawk
harpoonist’s weapon. Then with a quick jerk of his forearm, and, before
the Hawks could slacken up, Rob drew his line taut.
Splash!
Out came the Hawks’ spear and fell into the water in a shower of spray,
cunningly dislodged by Rob’s cleverness.
Hunt scowled blackly as the two boats drew alongside to disentangle the
weapons. He said nothing, however, but glanced back at Harding. The
lines were speedily cast apart, and the two boats drew off for a fresh
attack. But as they did so, Dale Harding inclined his steering oar and
the Hawks’ boat came crashing down upon the Eagles’ craft. Tubby
Hopkins’ oar was caught between them and almost snapped.
“Hold up! Hold up!” he shouted angrily. “What are you trying to do?”
“Keep off there, Dale. How can you be so careless?” admonished Hunt,
but, nevertheless, a gleam of satisfaction lit up his eyes as he noted
that Tubby’s wrist had been twisted, and from the way in which the fat
boy held the member it must have been giving him some pain.
“Don’t let accidents like that happen again, Harding,” warned Bartley
Holmes sharply, “or I’ll disqualify you.”
“Row right up on it this time; I want to get a good hold,” hailed Rob to
Merritt. The coxswain nodded and as the oarsmen gave way he directed the
prow of the boat almost directly at the floating “sturgeon.”
“We’ll wait and see what they do,” declared Hunt, addressing his crew.
“If they hook fast, I’ll try Rob’s trick and yank his harpoon out. If
they don’t, we’ll drive the spear deep and tug theirs out.”
With a sharp “z-i-i-g!” Rob’s harpoon flew from his hand and sank
shivering into the soft wood of the “sturgeon.”
“Good strike!” shouted Bartley Holmes from his canoe.
“Back water, Eagles!” yelled Merritt, as the Hawks came driving down
upon the quarry. Hunt’s sinewy form stood erect and tensile for a
second, then down drove his arm with every ounce of muscular effort of
which he was capable.
“Good boy!” shouted the impartial referee.
The leader of the Hawks had sunk his weapon fully as far into the
floating target as had Rob.
“Now for the tug of war,” muttered Holmes, as the two boats drew apart,
both harpoon-ropes stretching taut as violin strings. Suddenly Rob
almost toppled backward as the strain on the Eagles’ boat was quickly
released and she shot forward. His harpoon had pulled out. It had not
been lodged deeply enough to resist the strain. On the other hand,
Hunt’s weapon seemed to be somewhat wobbly poised. Evidently, the
tugging had weakened its grip.
But the Hawks paid no attention to this. Nor indeed could they do
anything to repair it without breaking the rules. Instead, they darted
off at top speed for the shore. A mighty, ear-splitting roar went up as
it was seen that the Hawk standard was for the second time, apparently,
victorious.
“It’s two out of three, fellows! We win!” Hunt exclaimed, as his boat
shot through the water.
But in the meantime, the Eagles had not been idle. Rob had hauled in his
dripping line and now stood once more ready for action. Behind him Tubby
was hitting up a terrific stroke. The Eagles’ boat fairly flew in
pursuit of the captors of the trophy.
“It’s now or never,” thought Rob, as at twenty feet or more he decided
to cast. Another second and it would be too late. With every effort he
could muster, the lad launched his harpoon, aiming, not at the body of
the fish, but at the Hawks’ weapon.
“He’s done it!” went up a shout of exultation from the Eagles’ rooters,
as for the second time that day Rob’s harpoon dislodged his opponent’s
spear.
“Confound the luck!” grated out Hunt, as he saw the victory torn from
his grasp, as it were. His groan of dismay was echoed by every one in
the Hawks’ boat.
“Close in! Close in!” yelled Dale, urging his crew around, while Hunt
rapidly manipulated his line, cast it loose of Rob’s, and made ready for
a fresh cast.
A current had caught the sturgeon and carried it quite a distance from
the two boats, and seaward, while this was going on. A sharp dash
followed. It was a culminating tussle. Straining every nerve and muscle,
the Eagles and the Hawks flew forward, as swiftly almost as their
namesakes.
“Now!” shouted Merritt.
Rob’s harpoon whistled through the air and sank, with a “squdge,” into
the side of the bobbing, evasive target.
A second later Hunt’s weapon, too, sought a resting place in the elusive
thing. But, alas for Hunt’s endeavor! The very energy he threw into his
cast unbalanced him, and he toppled with a splash and a great commotion
clean over the bow of his craft and into the water.
He could swim like a fish, and came up a second later, puffing and
sputtering. With the stream of water he emitted from his lips as he rose
to the surface was mingled some savage language. Hastily he grabbed the
gunwale of the Hawks’ boat, and started to clamber into it.
To his intense joy, he saw, as he emerged from his ducking, that his
spear seemed to be firmly fixed in the wooden fish.
“Hurry up!” urged Dale. “We’ll get them yet.”
The Eagles rapidly passed the line under the keel of their boat till it
trailed out astern.
“Give way!” shouted Merritt, and “give way” with a will did the four
pairs of healthy young arms. The Eagle boat fairly cut through the
water. The maneuver caught the Hawks napping. Before they could do
anything their line was drawn taut, and the harpoon Freeman Hunt had
planted was jerked out.
“Hooray!” came a deep, swelling roar, surging toward the contestants,
from the shore.
“Now then, Eagles, you’ve got them!”
“After them, Hawks!”
“Don’t give up!”
“K-r-ee-ee-ee!”
These cries and a thousand others, mingled in a perfect babel of sound.
To the uproar, however, neither of the crews paid any attention. Their
efforts and energies were all bent in one direction—to get across the
base line first with the fish. The Hawks’ boat made a creditable spurt,
while Hunt gathered up his line ready for a fresh cast. He would make an
attempt to snatch victory out of defeat. How much his mind was bent upon
success, it was easy to see by his lined brow and narrowed eyes. Closer
and closer to the flying Eagles crept the Hawks’ boat.
Unencumbered by a wooden fish to tow, they could make much faster time.
Now they were almost upon the prey, and Freeman Hunt drew himself up for
a supreme effort. His brown arm drew back, showing the muscles bulging
and working under the flesh.
The next instant the harpoonist of the Hawks made his last cast
and—lost! His weapon flashed into the water, missing the target by the
fraction of an inch. An instant later the Eagles’ boat shot across the
base line, amid a pandemonium of cheers, yells, tooting of auto horns
and sympathetic groans for the losers. The Eagles had won out in the big
event of the day.