THE BOAT-RACE
It was Saturday morning.
Along the Ferry Hill shore, from the landing to a point half a mile
further downstream where the finish flags flew, students and villagers,
the former in most cases accompanied by friends or relatives, stood, sat
or strolled at points of vantage. On the river white-sailed skiffs,
chugging launches, gaudy canoes and more sober rowboats darted and
drifted across the sunlit water. It was the hottest sort of a June
morning and only the steady little northerly breeze kept the heat from
being intolerable to the spectators along shore.
The crews had gone up the river half an hour before, the men making the
trip to the starting point in comfortable launches, their shells
streaking along in tow. The time for starting the race was already past
and everyone about the finish was eagerly awaiting the distant boom of
the tiny brass cannon aboard the referee's launch which would announce
to them that the struggle had begun two miles away.
From where Chub and Roy sat in the midst of a throng of onlookers on a
high point of rock near the finish line the entire course was in sight
save for a space where Fox Island hid it. Away up the broad blue ribbon
of water tiny specks that danced and glittered in the blaze of sunlight
told where the start was to be made, but only Sid, who was the proud
possessor of a pair of dilapidated field-glasses, could tell one boat
from another. At last there was an excited grunt from that youth.
"They're off!" he cried. "I saw the smoke from the cannon on the Sylph!"
And in confirmation of his statement a low _boom_ came down to them on
the breeze. Everyone jumped to his feet and gazed intently up-stream.
But only such as had glasses were able to throw any light on the
situation up there. Sid was popular and voluble.
"We're ahead, 'way ahead!" he cried excitedly. "About two lengths, I
guess."
"_Hooray!_" shrieked Patten.
"No, we're not, either," said Sid lamely. "I was looking at a launch. I
can't see our boat at all!"
"O--oh!" groaned the others.
"Yes, there it is! I think--it looks as though--"
"Well, out with it!" commanded Chub.
"I guess it's about a length behind," finished Sid.
But when half the course had been rowed it was possible to identify the
two boats without the aid of field-glasses. Side by side they were, or
very nearly, and coming hard. Someone in the Ferry Hill shell was
splashing occasionally; they could see the water dash up into the
sunlight. Then, still rowing about even, they were lost to sight behind
the island and suspense gripped the spectators. The seconds seemed
minutes until, at last, the slim sharp bow of a boat shot into sight
past the lower end of the island. Followed a breathless moment until the
back of the bow oar appeared. Then the group groaned as one man. Bow
wore a white shirt; the Hammond shell was in the lead. Clear of the
island it came and still the rival boat didn't follow.
"Guess our boat's sunk," muttered Chub nervously.
Then another brown nose poked its way past the point and Ferry Hill,
three lengths behind, but rowing hard, flashed into view. The crowd on
the shore vented its relief in a long yell. Maddox, the tiny coxswain,
his megaphone strapped to his mouth, was bending forward and urging his
crew onward. But three lengths is a good deal to make up in the last
quarter-mile of a hard race, especially when one of the crew is plainly
ragged.
"Just look at Hadden!" moaned Thurlow. "He isn't pulling a pound!"
"Thinks he's a blooming geyser, I guess," said Chub disgustedly. "See
him splash, will you? He's just about all in."
But Hammond's stroke was also showing the effects of the work and was
rowing woefully short. Inch by inch the brown shirts crept up on the
white. At first, so slow was the gain, that no one noticed it. Then Chub
let up a whoop of joy.
"We're after 'em!" he cried. "We're gaining on 'em!"
"Yes, but we can't cut down that lead," answered Roy, who had been
freed from inner bounds for the race. "But we certainly are creeping
up!"
"You just bet we are!" shrieked Sid. "Why, we're only two lengths
behind! We--we aren't that much!"
"Length and a half," grunted Thurlow.
The two boats were almost abreast of them now and only a couple of
hundred yards remained. In and out dipped the red blades and the brown,
forward and back bent the straining bodies, back and forth like shuttles
slid the two red-faced, shouting coxswains. The strident tones of Maddox
came up to those on the hillside:
"Hit it up, now! Hit it up! Ten hard ones! One!... Two!... Three!..."
Ten hard ones made a difference. The bow of the Ferry Hill shell slid up
to the stern of the rival boat. On the shore pandemonium reigned.
Shouts, yells, shrieks, bellows; entreaty, command; a vocal jumble that
no one even heard! For below there on the flashing river the two boats
were crossing the finish line, Hammond a half length to the good! Down
went the white signal flag.
"Let her run!" cried the Hammond coxswain.
Past the judge's boat floated the shells, victor and vanquished, while
on the shore and in the watching craft spectators drew long breaths and
turned homeward. In the Ferry Hill boat only Horace Burlen sat erect.
Whitcomb was leaning weakly on his oar, Gallup's head was in his hands
and Hadden was huddled limply while Maddox splashed water upon him.
Hammond was paddling slowly around in a circle, coming back. Abreast
of their defeated rivals they rested on their oars and cheered for Ferry
Hill. And Ferry Hill cheered weakly for Hammond. And the boat-race was a
thing of the past.
[Illustration: "Ten hard ones made a difference"]
"Another fifty yards and we'd have had them," said Chub disappointedly.
"Surely," answered Roy. "But we certainly rowed the pluckiest kind of a
race. Look at the way we overhauled them there at the last!"
"Fine!" said Thurlow.
"Swell!" said Sid.
And in this way they found surcease for their disappointment; which was
as it should have been. A race well rowed and won is something to be
proud of; a race well rowed and lost may be quite as creditable. Pluck
and sportsmanship is always the criterion, not merely victory. Many a
time has a defeated crew or eleven taken off the first honors. Ferry
Hill's game finish to a heart-breaking race--rowed, as the timers'
watches proved, twelve seconds under record time for the course--more
than atoned for her defeat.
"After all," said Thurlow, "it wasn't that our crew was poorer than we
thought it was, but that Hammond's was a blamed sight better. Why, we
must have finished six or seven seconds under the record!"
"Sure," answered Chub more cheerfully. "It was a dandy crew and Horace
deserved to win. If the fellows know their business they'll re-elect him
for next year. I don't like the chap a bit, but he certainly did row a
fine race!"
"That's right," responded the rest as they climbed the hill back to
school. And by the time the campus was reached they were all smiling as
though victory instead of defeat had fallen to their lot. All save Chub.
Chub was very unhappy, but not over the race.
"Lots of good you did," he said to Roy as they made their way across to
the dormitory. "You might as well have squared yourself; we got beat
anyhow."
"Maybe, but that doesn't change the--the ethics of the thing," replied
Roy.
"Ethics!" snorted Chub. "I'll bet ethics won't help us to win from
Hammond this afternoon. Oh, I dare say it's all mighty fine and heroic,
Roy, but it's blamed hard on me!"
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, I dare say, but you're not half as sorry as I am," answered the
other ruefully. "Look here, now. The race is all over and done with.
Let's go see Emmy now and tell him what we know. What do you say? Shall
we? He can't refuse to let you play."
But Roy shook his head.
"I'd rather not, Chub. I decided not to tell on Horace and I'm not going
to, ever. That's settled. Besides, Emmy wouldn't let me play now; he'd
say I ought to have told him as soon as I found it out."
"Wish to goodness you had," groaned Chub. "You're an obstinate beast,
Roy. If I didn't like you so well I'd punch your fool head for you!"
Chub wasn't the only one disappointed and disgusted by Roy's stand.
Harry had almost given way to tears when she had learned of his
resolution.
"After all my trouble!" she had wailed. "I don't think it's very--very
appreciative of you, Roy Porter!"
But in the end she, like Chub and Jack, had been bound to secrecy,
promising not to tell her father. That she hadn't been cautioned against
telling anyone else had been merely because Roy had known her ability to
keep her own counsel.
"I suppose he will let you come and watch the game, won't he?" asked
Chub as they parted on the stairway.
"Yes, he gave me permission to see both the race and the game," answered
Roy. "And I'll be there, never fear. I'm going to help Hadden and Cole
with the cheering."
"Well, so long. I'll see you at dinner. We're going out at two-thirty.
You'd better come along."
The breeze died away about noon and when, at half-past two, the nine and
substitutes went out to the field and the spectators began to assemble,
the heat was almost unbearable. But it was a good baseball day, for
after one has once begun to perspire freely he can play ball to the
King's taste. Hammond trotted on to the diamond soon after Ferry Hill
and went to work practicing Ferry Hill remaining at the batting net
until a quarter to three. Then the two nines changed places and Mr. Cobb
began knocking out the ball.
The stands were well filled by three o'clock and fans were waving
lustily. Along one edge of the field Hammond Academy's supporters,
nearly a hundred strong, squatted on the grass and strove to keep the
burning rays of the sun from their faces by using their flags and
pennants as screens. Across the diamond Ferry Hill had assembled,
fortunate in having the stand behind them to throw some shade where they
sat. Roy and Hadden and Cole were to lead the cheering and to this end
had armed themselves with brown megaphones. Coats were discarded, while
on the seats green and white and brown sunshades made brilliant blots of
color. In the center of the main stand sat Doctor Emery, Mrs. Emery and
Harry, and with them as guests of honor were Doctor Hammond, Principal
of the rival academy, and his wife. It looked at first glance as though
Harry had joined the enemy, in spite of the brown banner she carried,
for in her lap was something hued much like the Hammond's brilliant
color. But it was only Roy's sweater which, having been repaired, Harry
had brought along to return to its owner. An enterprising citizen of
Silver Cove was doing a rushing business selling "ice-cold drinks! Lemon
pop, sarsaparilla _and_ root beer! Who's next?"
At two minutes past the hour Chub and O'Meara, respectively captains of
Ferry Hill and Hammond, met at the plate and watched the umpire spin a
coin.
"Heads!" cried O'Meara.
"Tails," said the umpire, stooping to rescue the coin. "What do you
want?"
"We'll take the field," replied Chub.
Then out they trotted, nine sturdy young figures in grey suits and
brown and white striped stockings, while Roy, Hadden and Cole shook
their megaphones and students and graduates and friends shouted
enthusiastically.
"Ferry Hill! Ferry Hill! Ferry Hill!" rang the slogan, "Rah, rah, rah!
Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Ferry Hill!"
Hammond answered promptly. Then Ferry Hill cheered for Hammond and
Hammond returned the compliment. The umpire walked down to his position
behind pitcher, tossed a nice, shiny white ball to the redoubtable Post,
Ferry Hill's crack pitcher, and casually remarked:
"Play ball!"