The Crimson Sweater Part 36

"Oh, the rest of it; being on bounds and--and not playing to-morrow,"

answered Roy. "You see, I'd just about made up my mind that I wasn't going to play, anyhow."

"Well, you're _going_ to play," answered Chub cheerfully. "And I'm pleased purple. A few of those nice long hits of yours to-morrow will do a heap of good, Roy."

But Roy didn't seem to hear.

"No one knows about this but you and Jack and me?" he asked.

"That's all," replied Chub.

"And if we don't say anything about it, then, no one else will know."

"Don't say anything about it!" cried Chub. "Are you crazy?"

"No, but there's the boat race to think of, Chub; we don't want to lose that, I guess. And if they take Horace out--"

"Now don't you be a silly a.s.s!" interrupted Chub in alarm. "Let them lose the old race! I reckon we don't want to lose the ball game either, do we? Now don't get sentimental and sloppy; Horace deserves all that's coming to him!"

"Maybe," answered Roy, "but I guess we'll just keep this to ourselves, if you fellows don't mind."

"But you won't be able to play!"

"I know," Roy replied, "but I wasn't expecting to, you see. And--and, anyhow, I've got my sweater back!"

"Sweater be blowed!" exploded Chub. "Don't be a fool, Roy! You're just fooling, aren't you, eh?"

"No, Chub, I'm not. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but--but I don't think it would be fair to the school to tell on Horace and lose the race. I'd like to play mighty well, but--I guess we'll just keep this to ourselves, fellows!"

CHAPTER XXV

THE BOAT-RACE

It was Sat.u.r.day morning.

Along the Ferry Hill sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.e.

The crews had gone up the river half an hour before, the men making the trip to the starting point in comfortable launches, their sh.e.l.ls 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 bra.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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-gla.s.ses, 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 gla.s.ses 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-gla.s.ses. Side by side they were, or very nearly, and coming hard. Someone in the Ferry Hill sh.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.l 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 sh.o.r.e vented its relief in a long yell. Maddox, the tiny c.o.xswain, 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 c.o.xswains. 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 sh.e.l.l slid up to the stern of the rival boat. On the sh.o.r.e 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 c.o.xswain.

Past the judge's boat floated the sh.e.l.ls, victor and vanquished, while on the sh.o.r.e 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Ten hard ones made a difference"]

"Another fifty yards and we'd have had them," said Chub disappointedly.