all this had happened amid so much confusion and excitement on the lake, that before harry realized it the stricken oarsman had been transferred to the motor-boat, which went chugging back up the course. then he and gordon stared blankly at each other. even if they had had the presence of mind to call to dr. brent, it is doubtful if they could have made themselves heard above the tumult.
“it was red deer, harry.”
“sure it was—and that was mac they lifted out.”
“who is red deer?” asked miss crosby, excitedly. “were those scouts that won?”
for a moment harry was too preoccupied to explain. “yes, those were scouts that won,” he then said abstractedly.
the clamorous shrieking of the launch containing the blue-sweater fellows brought them out of their daze. their scoutmaster had actually appeared and disappeared before them amid excited throngs here at this remote little village. two of their own fellow scouts had, by almost superhuman effort, won a race before their very eyes. yes, and those were the only two fellows in the troop who could have done it—save one. and now one of them had given out, and there was the final heat still to be raced.
“these are our regulations,—
there’s just one fate for the scout,
and the hayseeds, too,
and when we’re through
they’ll look like all get-out!”
sang the college boys, triumphantly, as they chugged about. their boisterous, confident voices were greeted with laughter and cheers from the shore. soon, their well-trained, crack oarsmen would come down the river, walking easily away from the scout crew, with its probably crude substitute.
“i wonder how red deer got himself mixed up with those cracker jacks,” said harry.
“harry, what’ll they do? they can’t put nelson in—or burt, either—it’s—” gordon looked imploringly into his friend’s face.
“well, my boy,” said mr. danforth, clapping harry on the shoulder, “where’s your voice? by jove, that was a great victory! why didn’t you cheer? eh?”
“he’s deducing,” said miss crosby.
harry turned suddenly. “mr. danforth,” said he, “those fellows belong to our own troop. hanged if i know where they came from, but i—i—just can’t stand here and see them beaten after putting up a race like that.”
the girl’s eyes were fixed intently on harry. gordon listened, his hand trembling on the rail. down the course came muffled cheering, as the victorious shell, with its single oarsman, was towed back to the starting line.
then miss antoinette crosby did a strange thing. she threw her arms around mr. danforth’s neck, and whispered to him, concluding by saying audibly, “please, please!”
that gentleman looked sharply at harry, but said not a word. he walked across the deck, and called below:
“captain, steam up the course as quick as you can!”
in a moment the yacht’s bow came around, and a score or more of little craft went scooting this way and that. then her whistle sounded, dignified and melodious compared with the screeching and tooting about her, and she headed up the crowd-bordered lake.
“where are you going, sir?” came a voice from below.
“up the course.”
“you can’t go up the course now, sir,” came from the patrol boat. “you’ll have to stay below the finish line—you were told that before.”
“it’s a matter of great importance,” mr. danforth called.
“can’t help it. fetch her round.”
“take her up, captain!” ordered mr. danforth, firmly. “clear out under there if you don’t want to be run into!”
“what are they trying to do?” said a man in the judge’s boat, which came chugging up. “here, bring that craft about! none of that!”
“ahoy there, below!” shouted mr. danforth’s captain. “stand out from under if you don’t want to be run down!”
the low, deep whistle sounded again, two gasoline dories chugged frantically backward, and the big white yacht, serene and heedless, steamed majestically up the course.
“didn’t i tell you he always has his own way?” said the girl, coming up to harry, who still leaned dazedly over the rail. “now you are going to distinguish yourself—you’ve got to—for my sake!”
“how did you know i wanted to take that fellow’s place, miss crosby?”
“stupid!” she said. “do you think you’re the only person that knows how to deduce?”
“i’m afraid it’s a hopeless task, miss crosby. i haven’t been in training, you know. i’m all tired out, and they’re a pretty skillful pair—those college chaps—then—”
“they’re an insulting, conceited set—and their poetry is at-ro-cious! you’ve got to do it. you can beat them. i know you can!”
“well, i guess that will help me to win, if anything can,” harry said.
“here, harry, my boy,” said mr. danforth, coming up. “no time to be standing around talking with girls now. come down in the cabin, and we’ll see if we can’t root out a jersey or bathing suit that’ll fit you—we’ll be up there in a minute.”
“isn’t it wonderful! you’ve found them at last!” the girl said to gordon when harry had gone below. “and just to think, i was here to see you do it! and oh, i want so much to see him row!”
“you’ll see him row, all right,” said gordon.
“he can do most anything, can’t he?”
“yes—but he doesn’t know much about girls.”
“why, what makes you say that?”
“’cause he doesn’t. he doesn’t know as much as i do about them.”
“the idea of your saying that—he must know lots of girls!”
“he hasn’t had as much experience with them as i have—but, honest, there’s nothing he can’t do—honest.”
“tell me about him, won’t you? about the things he can do.”
would he!
all was excitement on the float as the yacht steamed by, headed for the pier a few yards beyond. evidently the oarsman who had collapsed was not in a serious condition, for there was dr. brent talking with one of the regatta committee. and there were walden and charlie greer and swift and waring and “brick” parks, crowding about him.
“looks good to see parks’s red head, doesn’t it, kid? don’t shout, now, just wait—it’ll only be a minute.” it was like an inspiration to both boys to see the familiar faces.
a racing shell containing two boys waited at the float. each had a blue sweater thrown over his shoulders. another shell, empty, was moored hard by.
the yacht made a landing and harry went ashore, followed by gordon. miss crosby stood at the rail watching them as they went over the side.
“remember,” she said, laughing, “it’s a scout’s duty to help others. you see, i know the law!”
the boys hurried to the float and for a moment stood on the edge of the little crowd, unobserved.
“i’m sorry, sir,” said dr. brent. “there isn’t another oarsman i can put in. i thank you for your kindness, but i’m afraid it will have to go by default. you see, we’re not prepared for this kind of thing, anyway; we’ve already accomplished more than i expected.”
“nothing doing?” called one of the oarsmen in the waiting shell.
“’fraid not,” answered some one in authority.
several fellows in blue sweaters, armed with gigantic megaphones, set up a victorious howl. the danforth yacht steamed gayly down the course.
“humph! all over. those welden chaps would win in a walk, anyway,” said some one near harry. then he heard the referee speak to dr. brent from his launch.
“i’m going to start this crew down the course, sir, so that i can give them the decision; you are not prepared?”
the expression rang in harry’s ears. it was the scouts’ own motto.
he pressed his way through the crowd and stood, face to face, with his scoutmaster and several members of the committee.
“yes, sir,” he said quietly; “we are prepared.”
you could have knocked red deer down with a feather. as for walden and charlie greer and “brick” parks—you should have seen them. vinton, the hawks’ corporal, stood gaping like an idiot. then the sudden appearance of gordon broke the spell and turned the whole thing into a laugh.
“did you come up in that yacht?” asked the astonished red deer.
“yes,” said harry. “we’ve been tramping around the country, looking for you. how’s mac—what’d he do, just faint? hello, burt, how’s everything? morrel, you’ve got your octagon staff along, haven’t you?”
“do you wish to enter this fellow?” some one asked, while the crowd clustered about.
“will you try it, harry?” asked the doctor.
“what do you suppose we came up in a private yacht for?” asked gordon, who, being, as you might say, mascot of the troop, enjoyed the special privilege of “talking up” to the scoutmaster. “there’s a magnet on that yacht.”
“a what?” said dr. brent.
“magnate, he means,” said harry.
the sudden appearance of the substitute did not seem to produce much anxiety on the part of the blue sweaters. on the contrary, they regarded his advent as affording them an opportunity of winning when they would otherwise simply have had the race without earning it. the casual glimpse they had of him gave them a good deal of amusement. he wore an ill-fitting bathing jersey, his face had the tan of a countryman, and the loose stride with which he approached the shell, followed by pierce, was not the stride of a trained athlete. there was no objection to his rowing when it became known that he was a member of the troop.
as many of the scouts as their old boat would hold crowded in and made a bee line for the finish, gordon among them, talking volubly.
harry looked the shell over as he and pierce took their places. it was quite the sort of racing craft which one might expect to find in a country boathouse. it had two pairs of swivels, not very far from the sides, and was, indeed, little more than a narrow, attenuated skiff. harry sat on the forward slide and for a few moments had some trouble getting pierce’s stroke. he was the last one in the world to row jealous, but try as he would to accommodate his pulling to that of his partner, he inevitably rowed him around every few strokes.
he could not fail to see that pierce was well-nigh played out. the other shell was a full length in the lead, and gliding steadily along with a length and evenness of swing that were beautiful to see. the crowds cheered vociferously, and since both contestants were outsiders, there was no encouraging word for the second shell as it wriggled along.
harry knew enough of pair racing to know that the forward oarsman is not free, and having his doubts about pierce’s vitality, he had wisely taken the forward slide so as to watch him. it soon became plain that he must accommodate himself to ragged and erratic work. whenever pierce swung short or took a slack beginning, harry had to exert himself to correct his partner’s fault and hold the course. they managed to get together in a spurt just beyond the half flag, and sent their prow up to the second rower of the rival craft. but it soon lapsed into a series of pitiable swerves, leaving them a full two lengths behind. with a coxswain, of course, they might have done better, but as it was, their progress was little better than ridiculous. the shouting along the shore had an occasional note of hooting in it.
“let her run, welden,” some one called derisively. “it’s all over.”
“those fellows came here aching for a race, and they haven’t had one yet,” shouted a sonorous voice.
the college boys were now more than three lengths in the lead, moving like twin pendulums, with long, uniform, supple swings. together their oars rose, together plunged dripping, and steadily, without a tremor, their shell glided forward.
the leading shell was passing the three-quarters when harry looked around. in his hasty glance, he saw the finish, the gay flotilla with its welcoming flags, the dense throng. he heard the premature tooting of distant launches.
“hit her up, old man,” he said; “careful, now, one—two—”
it was no use. “where are we?” asked pierce, breathing heavily.
“there’s the three-quarters flag. are you all in? all right, old man—don’t try.”
the disappointment in harry’s voice could not be disguised, and it spurred pierce to a frantic final effort. he leaned far forward, plunged his oar, made a long, steady stroke, then before he rose, a hand stole over his own and the oar was taken from him.
“that’s all right,” said harry, gently. “sit steady, old man,—not going to keel over, are you?”
half-consciously, and with a feeling of utter relief, pierce collapsed, his head hanging forward, his hands clutching the gunwale on either side.
“that’s right,” said harry. “don’t lean back. i need the room. i’ll splash you when i get her going.”
pierce did not know what it was all about; he did not care, but he was vaguely conscious of ecstatic cheering and of a sudden dart forward.
they were two racing oars that harry had undertaken to manage—not a pair of sculls—which meant that there was a full two feet more length than a single arm was supposed to manipulate. he locked the oar into his own empty swivel. his lithe, slender form bent forward till it almost lay upon the prostrate figure before him. then the quick, steady rise of his body, past the perpendicular, back till he seemed to lie prone. then the quick, clean, firm lift of the dripping oars. then the rapid, elastic recovery of his body, the long, well-balanced forward swing, accompanied by the straight reach of his arms.
the shell glided forward under the impetus of this human machinery. again and again, without the variation of the fraction of an inch in any move, the long pull was taken, and greeted with frantic howls from the shore. his hair blew about his head with a kind of wild picturesqueness, his movement was like an automaton—perfect, calm, indomitable. presently, a perfect pandemonium of yelling and screeching rang in his ears. he glanced aside and saw that his prow was even with his rival’s forward slide. they were now within a few feet of the finish.
he pulled another stroke, then splashed water over pierce’s head, as he had promised.
the rival oarsmen glanced at him, surprised, apprehensive. the launch with the other blue sweaters approached as near as allowed, her occupants shouting advice vociferously to meet this new turn of affairs. their placard was not in evidence.
close in the rear, harry saw the referee’s launch clipping along, as if awakened to sudden and necessary activity. he was vaguely conscious of the dense, surrounding throng, of carriages and autos crowded in the road, of canoes and dories packed tight at the water’s edge.
he was desperate, but calm. he knew what he wished to do. he knew enough of the sport to know that the sculler has one advantage, that of spurting. between contesting scullers, well-matched, the spurt at the right moment usually means victory. if he could keep this position through his rival’s “long stroke,” then he stood a chance.
presently, the order came. “long stroke—hit her up!” shouted their coach from the motor-boat. they darted ahead, had their little spasm, and harry remained exactly where he was before—his bow level with their second slide.
they were close on the finish line. the screeching was deafening.
“hit her up, boys!” came a laughing mandate from the welden launch. “once more, hit her up, and let her run!”
the judge’s dory swirled about to clear the way. you would not have thought that harry could give a longer swing nor pull a more effectual stroke than he had been doing. yet the shell, bearing the huddled and exhausted scout and its single oarsman, darted silently forward like a streak. its prow lay even with the prow of the rival craft now. the boys in blue sweaters yelled frantically to their crew, but their cries and orders were drowned in the tumult.
again, and still again, the agile form swung forward. again, and still again, the shell responded, cutting the still, sun-flecked water like a knife. now she was half a length ahead. then there was a sudden shake of his head as the oars dipped, and his hair flew loose. it was a sight for a painter.
throwing all his strength into the pull, uniting in a final effort the utmost power and reach of arm and body, he swung back, his head hanging in a kind of loose abandon from the exhaustion of the stroke. and amid the frenzied cheering and clamorous waving of hats and flags, he swept past the finish line.
just above him, as they brought the shell about, he could distinguish, amid the screeching of a score of boats, the deep, melodious whistle of the big white yacht.
