“get a move on, bleek! ginger up, pard, ginger up!”
“good work, merry! that’s the way to show ’em your heels!”
“dig, old scout! why don’t you dig?”
“plenty of chance, yet, bleek; don’t lose your nerve!”
“chance? why, bleeker hasn’t a look-in—not with chip merriwell paddling like that! merry’s coming down the stretch like a scared coyote making for home and mother. hoop-a-la!”
there were five canoes in that race for single paddles. there had been seven, but two had fouled each other and come to grief less than a hundred yards from the starting point. barzy blunt and hotchkiss, of gold hill, were the unlucky ones. as soon as they had gained the shore they joined the rooters who were running along the bank. a ducking had not dampened their ardor in the least, and blunt and hotch pranced along in their bathing trunks, cheering and encouraging the rest of the racers.
it was late in the forenoon. the bright arizona sun trailed its beams over the waters of the gulch, gilding each little ripple as it danced about the charging canoes. the only shadow on the stream was at the place where the gentle slopes of the gulch banks were shouldered aside by the steep bluff known as apache point.
above the point, and around the turn in the gulch, was a white flag. the start of the canoe race had been from this flag. the “elbow” at the foot of the point was to be rounded by the racers, and the finish line was opposite the white tents of the gold hill campers.
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apart from blunt and hotchkiss, the contesting paddlers were young merriwell, his chums, owen clancy and billy ballard, bleeker, a leader in the gold hill athletic club, and lenaway, another member of the club.
merriwell, clancy, and ballard, crouching in the sterns of their frail craft, had worked easily but steadily from the start. they knew from experience that swiftness in the get-away and a wild expenditure of energy at the beginning caused the loss of many a race—not only on the water but on the cinder track, as well. it is the fellow who carefully and judiciously nurses his powers for a spurt on the home stretch that makes the best showing, when all’s said and done.
the length of the course to be covered in this canoe race was about half a mile. a hundred yards from the starting point, frank and his chums were some distance behind. bleeker led, and almost neck and neck with him were hotchkiss and the cowboy, barzy blunt. lenaway’s canoe filled in the widening gap between the leaders and the farnham hall lads in the rear.
blunt had more strength than skill, and it was his awkwardness that caused the crash with hotchkiss. the violence of the impact caused both canoes to roll over and fill. with these two contestants out of the way, the race began rapidly narrowing down.
one by one the canoes rounded the foot of the point, hugging the steep wall closely. bleeker led the procession, lenaway followed, and then came merry, clancy, and ballard in the order named.
the instant merriwell’s canoe shot away from the point, however, he could be seen to buckle to his work in masterly style. first he overhauled lenaway, and then passed him with comparative ease.
lenaway, realizing that the race undoubtedly lay between
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merriwell and bleeker, strove to take what honors he could away from clancy and ballard. halfway between the point and the finish line, ballard snapped his paddle.
“how’s that for luck?” he shouted ruefully, as clancy and lenaway dashed on prow to prow. “go it, reddy! it’s up to you and chip, now, to show these gold hillers what we can do.”
bleeker, a prime fellow and trained to the minute, realized that he had the fight of his life on his hands if he was to win against merriwell. he made swift demand upon all his reserve strength, and his muscles answered superbly. but the strain of the contest was telling upon him—mainly because he had worked too hard on the first half of the course.
merriwell was creeping up on the other canoe, slowly yet steadily and relentlessly. and the remarkable part of his work was that the tension of those exciting moments was not evident in a single move he made. with easy, almost careless, grace he dipped his blade, and his light craft plunged onward like a well-trained thoroughbred. it was evident to all that merriwell was a “stayer,” and that bleeker had about shot his bolt.
frank was somewhat surprised at bleeker, for on the preceding day he and clancy had given the gold hill lads an object lesson in husbanding resources for the home stretch and not being too free with them at the beginning. bleeker should have profited by that experience.
little by little merry drew up abreast of bleeker. the latter’s face was set and there was a strained look about it which proved how hard he was driving himself.
when frank nosed on into the lead, a roar went up from the bank. blunt was rooting for merry, and cheering with all his range ardor and enthusiasm. the cowboy
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had a whole-souled admiration for the eastern lad, and believed that no one of his age or inches could beat him at any sport.
“whoop!” he bellowed, jumping around on the bank in his drenched and abbreviated costume. “keep your eye on my pard, will you? throw up your hands, bleek! it’s as good as over.”
“never say die, bleek!” shouted a gold hiller across the water. “keep at it, old man! come ahead, come ahead!”
bleeker was fighting gamely. he was not the lad to quit because the tide of battle was running against him. by an effort as remarkable as it was unexpected, he dug down into an underlying stratum of power and hurled his canoe onward until it was again nose to nose with merriwell’s.
frank’s admiration for his plucky rival was great. to win over such a true sportsman would be a victory to be highly prized.
and frank was doing his best. if bleeker’s sudden access of strength held out, frank might be only second at the swimming float where the race was to end.
“go to it, chip!” yelled a voice which had not been heard before in all that riot of noise from the river bank. “you’re generally first at the last of it, mainly because you never get rattled by being last at the beginning. now’s the time to make your showing!”
a thrill shot through merriwell as he heard that particular voice. he was wondering a little, too, as to how the owner of that voice happened to be at the gold hill camp. just then, however, he had no attention to spare from his immediate work.
bleeker’s spurt did not last. he had been too prodigal of his strength. his canoe began dropping off, and
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merriwell came abreast of the float half a length in the lead.
“hoop-a-la!” shouted barzy blunt, cutting a few cowboy capers on the bank. “what did i tell you, eh? hurrah for chip—a chip of the old block if there ever was one.”
ballard, working his way to the shore with what was left of his paddle, likewise exulted in his chum’s victory. clancy, reaching the float just ahead of lenaway, joined in the cheering.
bleeker, although breathless with his efforts, managed to get his canoe alongside merriwell’s.
“put it there, chip,” he laughed, reaching out his hand. “you gave me the finest bit of fun i’ve had in many a day.”
merriwell clasped the hand heartily.
“it was anybody’s race for a while, bleek,” he answered. “if we had it to do over again, more than likely you’d trim me.”
“not so you could notice it, old man. you’re a stayer from stayerville, and i take off my hat to you as the better man.”
it was to be noticed that the cheering over merry’s victory was general, and the gold hill boys joined in it quite as heartily as did frank’s chums and his cowboy friend. as merry brought his canoe to the bank and hopped ashore, he was greeted by the lad whose voice he had heard so unexpectedly while the canoes were bearing down on the float.
“up to your old tricks, eh, chip?” laughed this youth. “if i had known what was on for this morning, i’d have tried to get here earlier.”
“hannibal bradlaugh, by jove!” cried merry, taking a grip on the hand that was pushed out to him.
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ever since merry had come to southern arizona he had known the son of the president of the ophir athletic club. the clubs at ophir and gold hill were rivals—bitter rivals, at one time, but now, in a great measure, owing to merriwell’s efforts, all the bitterness was a thing of the past.
“hello, brad!” called bleeker, pushing forward to take the hand merriwell had released. “the last of that performance was the best part of it, so you didn’t miss a whole lot by getting here late. if you’ve come to stay for a while, we’ll give you a chance to take a hand in some of these water sports.”
“i’m not going to have my scalp dangling at any gold hill belt,” brad laughed, “and that’s what would happen if i got hold of a paddle and tried to do anything. anyhow, i didn’t come to stay for more than a few minutes. i’m after chip. he’s wanted in ophir.”
“news from bloomfield?” frank asked, lifting his eyes quickly.
“no, nothing from bloomfield. i’m sorry as blazes to cut short your stay here——”
“we were going back to ophir this afternoon, anyhow,” merry cut in, “so that part of it is all right. pink, clan, and i promised the professor solemnly we’d get back to town this evening. he’d be after us if we didn’t go, for that’s the sort of a prof he is. what’s up, brad? from your looks i should say it was serious business.”
“oh, not so blamed serious. step over this way a minute, will you?”
bradlaugh drew merriwell to one side and began talking to him in low, earnest tones. as merry listened, an expression of thoughtful concern could be seen to cross his face.
