Barbour Ralph Henry
Captain of the Crew

CHAPTER XXIII
PROSPECTS OF VICTORY

The erstwhile gallant crew of The Sleet lay upon the grass in front of Academy Building in the shadow thrown by the wall that runs along the edge of the bluff. About them in little piles lay various worn and tattered books. Dick and Carl, propped upon their elbows, were nibbling the succulent ends of grass blades. Trevor lay flat upon his back, gazing steadfastly upward at the slowly marching clouds, supreme content upon his sunburned face. Stewart Earle sat cross-legged and performed wonderful feats with a pearl-handled penknife. It was a few minutes before two; dinner was over and the bell had not yet rung for recitations.

Before them the warm red bulk of Academy Building, already hidden in wide expanses with tender green ivy leaves, arose against the velvety blue of the sky. In the tower a quivering disk of dazzling light marked where the sun shone upon the old bell. The trees were in full leaf, and the green was a little forest of light and shade and murmurous branches. Even the river dozed, below the bluff turquoise blue unbroken by swirl or eddy, beyond in the distance aglint with the sun. In the dormitories the windows were thrown wide, and boys lazed on the cushioned seats. There was a tuneful, unceasing hum of insects; the sun shone hotly; summer had come to the valley of the Hudson. It was the third day of June, a fact just remarked upon by Stewart, who had casually added that it was the anniversary of the Battle of Cold Harbor. This exciting announcement went unnoticed for a moment. Then Carl yawned loudly.

“Don’t believe it,” he muttered. More silence followed. Then, “It is extremely bad taste,” said Dick, “to air your knowledge in – that – in that – ” Then his teeth closed on an unusually attractive grass stem and he subsided. A little breeze crept up the slope from the campus and stirred the brown locks over Trevor’s forehead. He sat up suddenly and observed Dick and Carl in fine disdain.

“Lazy beggars,” he muttered. At great labor and with many harrowing groans he reached about and gathered a handful of grass. Dick knew what was coming, but hadn’t the energy to prepare for resistance until it was too late. Then he sat up himself and, pulling the wad from his neck, stuffed it down Carl’s. Every one giggled; it was really very funny for a warm day. The quartet were now sitting in a circle, even Carl showing signs of life. Conversation appeared to be necessary. Dick opened his lips and closed them again without a sound. Trevor came to the rescue.

“Hot,” he remarked.

“You’re an awful chatterbox,” sighed Carl. But the spell was broken.

“Only two weeks to the end of school,” said Dick. “By Jove, I’d just like to know where the time’s gone; it doesn’t seem any time since spring vacation!”

“That’s so,” answered Carl. “Another two weeks and it’ll be all over, and good-by to old Hillton. It’s funny how sorry it makes a chap. That’s the odd thing about it; it doesn’t seem so fine until you have to leave it all. I wonder if I’ll have as good a time at college?”

“I know,” mused Dick sentimentally, “it’s almost like leaving home. I wish – I wish I was going to stay another year!”

“My, you’re funny,” quoth Stewart. “Catch me being sorry when I get through!”

“Wait; you will be,” answered Carl. “There’s a whole raft of fellows going up to Harwell this year, isn’t there? Do you know anything about your room yet, Dick?”

“No; I guess I’ll find a small one near the Yard for this year. When Trevor comes he and I are going to room together, aren’t we, old chap?”

“If you’re good,” answered his chum gravely. When hostilities had ended Carl said reminiscently:

“It’s been a pretty good year for Hillton, hasn’t it?”

“So far; if you only beat St. Eustace at baseball, and if we can only win on the river it’ll be the best year on record, I guess. We certainly did her up finely at the interscholastic meet, eh?”

“I should say so! Forty-three points to twenty-nine! And little Stew here to thank for ten of them. Take off your hat, Stew!”

“’Tis off.”

“I’ll never forget the way in which he ran away from that St. Eustace fellow in the half-mile,” continued Carl, smiling. “And to think that when he came here three years ago he couldn’t turn the door-knob without using both hands!”

“Oh, dry up,” said Stewart.

“I guess you’re pretty certain to beat St. Eustace at baseball, aren’t you, Carl?”

“Yes, pretty certain; barring accidents we ought to have little trouble. We play Shrewsburg again Saturday, and I believe we’ll shut her out.”

“Don’t get too confident,” warned Dick.

“No fear; and I don’t talk like this before the fellows. But we’ve really got the finest lot of players that I ever saw.”

“I know. Well, if you get both games from St. Eustace your name will go down to posterity in red letters with a wreath about it. I only wish I was as hopeful as you are.”

“Old Dick wouldn’t let himself get hopeful if we had a boatful of tailor’s dummies to row against,” said Trevor. “There isn’t any possibility of our getting beaten on the fifteenth – barring accidents.”

“But the trouble is we can’t bar accidents,” replied Dick. “They will happen even in the best regulated of crews. Somebody’s certain to take sick or sprain his wrist or something.”

“Isn’t he an old granny?” asked Trevor disgustedly.

“I hear you had a shake-up yesterday?” queried Carl.

“A little one; Kirk took Milton out and is trying Cheever at three. And he dropped Rankin from the second eight. That was all. I guess we’ll row about the way we are now. St. Eustace’s coach read the riot act last week, they say; dumped two men out of the boat and raked every one over the coals. Oh, well, we’ll know all about it in a couple of weeks.”

“I wish I was as certain of exams as I am that we’ll beat St. Eustace,” said Trevor. “By the way, Dick, the pater’s coming up for class day to see you graduate. Stewart, they’re going to draw for the tennis tournament to-night in Chandler’s room.”

“How many entries are there?” asked Carl.

“Twenty-two. I hope I don’t get drawn for the preliminary round, that’s all. I’d hate to get thrown out of it so early and have no – ”

“There she goes,” said Stewart, jumping up.

The bell in the tower rang lazily, and the four entered Academy Building for two o’clock recitations.

May had slipped into June, and June had brought fresh impetus in every outdoor pursuit. The school was rowing mad, just as it always was in June, and every day groups of fellows congregated at the boat-house or watched the proceedings from the path above. The trying period of instruction in a pair-oar at the hands of Malcolm Kirk or, as upon occasions, at those of Dick, was over and practice had simmered down to businesslike work in stretches of from an hour to two hours each day. It wasn’t all rowing; often the men leaned motionless over their oars while Kirk from the deck of the little Terrible talked to them for a quarter of an hour at a time on the error of their way. Always, nowadays, there was ten minutes or so of practicing starts; often the varsity and second were drawn up on the mark, and were given the word together; and alas for the boat that was behind at the tenth stroke! But it was the best of training, and the proficiency in quick starting which they finally secured stood them in good stead later.

There was less fault-finding on the part of the coach with the fellows as individuals now. The work as a whole received the bulk of his attention, and the most serious fault he had to contend with was a tendency to raise the stroke by rushing the body forward instead of putting more force into the pull through. There were lesser faults, besides; plenty of them; there was probably never yet a perfect crew, and certainly Hillton’s varsity was in no danger of becoming one. But on the whole the fellows rowed well, making the most of the long stroke, taking kindly enough to the rather severe leg-work, and gradually acquiring the ability to spurt quickly and evenly. For this, naturally, much credit belonged to Dick, who, at stroke, displayed wonderful steadiness, and inspired the crew with a sensation of balance and security that promised to accomplish much in time of stress. Taylor, at Number 7, worked with Dick as one cog-wheel works with another, and Kirk was well satisfied with the stern of the varsity boat at least. In the waist a source of some trial was Waters, who of late had displayed a tendency to clip his stroke. Trevor was doing finely at Number 4, and had vindicated Kirk’s first impression of him, and Professor Beck’s as well, and, for that matter, his own. But perhaps the best feature displayed by the crew was a hearty willingness to work; there were no sluggards in the boat, and an earnest resolve to wrest victory from St. Eustace inspired all.

Taylor had kept his promise, though Dick, to be sure, had never doubted that he would do so. In the course of time the sprained knee was pronounced healed, and he had taken his place in the boat again and had fitted into it in such a way that Dick was convinced that his sacrifice, had it been necessary, would not have been too dear a price to pay for the other’s return. The two saw but little of each other outside of training, and the trouble that had threatened Hillton with defeat on the water was never alluded to by either. If they were not friends neither were they enemies, and each had risen in the other’s estimation.

CHAPTER XXIV
STEWART’S REVENGE

The tennis tournament began two days after the pow-wow between the quartet on the lawn. In spite of Trevor’s wishes on the subject, he found himself drawn for the preliminary round, and opposed to a lower middle boy named Page. But he had no trouble in winning two sets running, and so qualified for the finals.

The tournament went slowly, for those were busy days at Hillton, and allowances had to be made for the demands of crew and baseball training. But Friday night left only four contestants – Trevor, Stewart, Hollis, and Montgomery. Play in the semifinal round began early Saturday morning. Trevor defeated Montgomery 3-6, 6-2, 6-2, and Stewart won from Hollis 6-3, 7-5. After a half-hour’s rest Trevor and Stewart faced each other smilingly across the net in the final round to decide the school championship.

It was a perfect morning for tennis, bright and warm, and though it gave promise of heat later, at ten o’clock a soft, fresh breeze blew across the campus from the woods. Trevor won the toss and chose the south court.

“I see my finish here,” he said with a grin.

Stewart laughed.

“I’m glad I’ve got you scared. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“So’m I; so look out for yourself.”

Trevor’s fears appeared to be justified by events, for Stewart took the first set from him very easily, six games to three, and won the second after a somewhat harder battle to the tune of 7-5. But after that Trevor seemingly found himself, and the third encounter was brilliant enough to win almost unceasing applause from the fairly large throng of spectators. It went to him finally by six games to four, and the fourth set begun.

The two boys played very different tennis. Trevor at his best was supremely careful and painstaking; one might have thought that tennis was a game like chess, in which each stroke was the result of deep study. He played slowly, relying upon scientific placing for his points. His serve was a justly celebrated overhand cut which against almost any boy in the school save his present opponent was very dangerous. But Trevor and Stewart had played together all the spring, and knew each other’s style from A to Z, and Stewart had from long experience learned to return Trevor’s puzzling service with a forehand stroke off the ground that was almost always successful. Trevor played well back as a rule, and was the possessor of a back-hand return that was the admiration of all.

Stewart on the court was like a whirlwind in white flannels. He was all dash and go. Lithe and lightly built, he seemed capable of being everywhere at once, and that without any special effort. His playing was brilliant in the extreme; his service was a swift stroke that landed the ball almost invariably on the service-line, and that required the opponent to stand back of base-line to receive it; his return was a long, lightning-like drive that just topped the net; and his smashing was something terrific. But, like most whirlwind players, Stewart took long risks and occasionally got very wild.

The fourth set went to Trevor after a hard battle, eight games to six, and the decisive struggle commenced. It was Trevor’s serve, and for the first time during the contest he won a love game on it, Stewart returning every ball out of court. On Stewart’s service Trevor failed almost as signally, getting but one return over. Stewart tried lobbing in the next game with disastrous results, and Trevor again won. With the games 1-3 Stewart took a decided brace and secured the next on his service, and the following one partly through Trevor’s poor work and partly through fine handling of the puzzling serves. It was then Trevor’s turn to win twice running, and he brought the score to 3-4; Stewart by faultless service made it four games all; each then won on his service and the score was games all.

It had been decided that the final set should not be a vantage set, and hence the next game would settle the contest. The two lads changed courts, and the audience looked for a speedy termination of the struggle. Trevor led off with a fault and followed it with a poor serve that allowed Stewart to return a slashing ball far into the right angle of side- and base-lines. Trevor was too late, and amid the applause of the crowd, and somewhat disconcerted, he repeated his previous performance; the first ball went into the net and the second bounced obligingly into Stewart’s racket and came skimming back swift and low, touching the canvas strip and dropping almost lifeless in the shadow of the net. This was also lost to Trevor, and the score was love-thirty. Trevor looked grimly determined now, and Stewart watched sharply for the next serve. He found it and returned it, and Trevor, with excellent judgment, crouched out of its way and let it go by well out of court. The next serve was one of Trevor’s best, and it found a good big hole in his adversary’s racket. The score was thirty all. Stewart found the next serve and put it into Trevor’s hands; the latter cut it to the left of the opposite court, but Stewart sent it back neatly toward the base-line. Trevor reached it by a long run, and with a magnificent back-hand stroke tried to place it over his opponent’s head. But Stewart was watchful and alert, and ran back in time, and again volleyed, sending the sphere down the right-side line. Trevor again returned, seeking a place out of reach of his nimble adversary, and Stewart, after a hard chase across court, got it on the bound and played it gently over. Trevor had followed up, however, and it was all over on the next play, for although Stewart dashed back again to the territory he had just left unprotected the ball was dead when he reached it. The score was now 40-30, and the game, set, and match might be won on the next stroke.

Trevor was breathing hard, but there was a grim determination in his eyes. Stewart appeared less tuckered, but he was somewhat pale despite the easy smile that played over his boyish face. Up went Trevor’s racket; up went the ball. There was a line of white through the air; Stewart put the head of his racket to the gravel; the ball in its low rebound struck it fair and went hurtling back. Stewart ran up to within a yard of the net. Trevor waited for the bounce, glanced hurriedly over the opposite court, chose his place, and sided his racket. But his plans were wrecked by a pebble. Up went the ball on the rebound almost straight into the air. Trevor darted forward. There was no time for niceties of cutting or placing. Ball and racket came together, and the former went skimming forward, head-high, straight as a dart for Stewart’s racket!

The crowd held its breath, picturing the terrific smash to follow, and Trevor scuttled back to the rear of the court from where it might be barely possible to get the ball on its long rebound. Stewart swung his racket back, strong fingers grasping the end of the handle, swung it down with all his force – and stared in seeming amaze. A groan of dismay went up from the onlookers as the ball passed by untouched and dropped into court.

“Game and set and match!” called the umpire. And then the applause began. Trevor advanced to the net, and he and Stewart shook hands.

“Beastly luck, that last stroke,” said Trevor heartily.

“Rotten playing, you mean,” answered Stewart, smiling. “I’m glad you’ve won, Trevor, honestly; but some time you and I’ll have it out again, if you like.”

“All right; I’d like to. And there’s another tournament coming next year, you know.”

Dick, who in company with Carl and many other friends, had watched the match from the side-line, slapped Trevor on the shoulder.

“Good work, chum! And you played like a cyclone, Stewart; you ought to have had it.” Then Trevor took possession of the little silver mug and wondered where the engraver was going to find room for his name on it, and the crowd broke up and hurried toward the Yard and dinner. On the way Stewart found himself beside Dick. Trevor and Todd were some distance ahead, the latter, who could play tennis about as well as an elephant can jump rope, explaining to the champion where he had made his mistakes.

“That was a queer stroke of yours, Stewart,” said Dick.

The younger boy darted a fleeting glance into the other’s smiling face.

“Rotten, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it rotten exactly; I should say it was remarkable.”

Stewart again glanced up to find Dick looking at him quizzically. For a moment the two eyed each other; then Stewart laughed and Dick joined in.

“No more remarkable than the way in which Trevor lost the two hundred and twenty yards at the indoor meeting, was it?” he asked.

“No,” replied Dick. “I should say they were about on a par. But I didn’t think that you suspected – ”

“You must think I’m blind then. I knew it well enough, and I made up my mind then to have my revenge. And I’ve had it to-day. But, I say, Dick, I’d rather you wouldn’t tell Trevor. I don’t think he knows.”

“No, I won’t say a word to him,” replied Dick with a smile. “You’re a funny pair, you two.”

But he went on up the river-path with one crimson-clad arm over Stewart’s shoulders.

The week that intervened between the tournament and the boat-race passed quickly. There was an air of expectancy and excitement in the air. Examinations were approaching, class day was almost at hand, and Hillton and St. Eustace were about to match their prowess both on the water and on the diamond. The varsity crew was on the river twice daily, but the hardest of training was over, and a period of light work took the place of the former grinding labor. The time for sledge-hammer blows was past, and the efforts of coach, captain, and coxswain were directed toward putting the finishing polish on their handiwork. From Marshall came the news that St. Eustace’s head rowing coach was firmly of the belief that he had succeeded in turning out a crew no whit inferior to that of the preceding year, and it was evident in many ways that the backers of the Blue were confident of another victory.

Dick was himself again; contented, hard-working, even hopeful despite his dark forebodings. He had not forgotten his lapse from honor; he often spent miserable moments in thinking about it; but, what with earnest promises to atone for it and with work and study enough to occupy every moment of his waking time, he found his periods of self-abasement becoming fewer and fewer. He was certain of passing his examinations well, and believed he would graduate an honor man of three terms.

On Thursday he and Trevor and Muggins sat in the grand stand and cheered nine clever young gentlemen on to a decisive victory over the ball players of St. Eustace, a victory that indicated a second to come when Hillton played the last game of the series at Marshall the following week. Gray was elated, and Hillton was proud of him, and gave evidence of its pride by well-nigh raising the roof when he appeared in dining-hall.

And after the game was over Dick and Trevor went to training-table for the last time; and every one was very hopeful and rather sad, and decidedly nervous – every one save Kirk, who did most of the talking, and told strange and interesting stories of life at Hillton when he was a boy there. There had been no work on the river that day, for the shell had been shipped to Marshall; but a two-mile trot on the road, followed by a five-minute bout with the weights, had taken the place of it. After supper the men went to Society House, where the second crew, disbanded the previous day, joined them, and Professor Beck and two graduates spoke to them in earnest, hopeful strain until it was bedtime. Then the varsity crew got together and cheered long and loud for the second, and the second cheered the varsity, and they both cheered Coach Kirk and Professor Beck and the two graduates. Whereupon all scattered for bed.

The next morning, bright and early, the varsity and substitutes journeyed to Marshall, and at eleven o’clock were paddling slowly over the course of the next day’s race, watched here and there by groups of St. Eustacians. They put up at the hotel, where Muggins, attired in a gorgeous crimson blanket adorned on each side with a great white H, attracted much interest, and afforded not a little amusement. He knew every member of the crew and every substitute by nightfall, and gave each a place in his affections. And when, after dinner, the St. Eustace Glee and Mandolin Clubs, followed by a number of boys from across the river, put in an appearance and gave a concert on the veranda, he planted his front feet wide apart, raised his blunt nose toward the starlit sky, and howled loudly and dismally until Trevor bore him off to bed.

And, although the concert still went on, Trevor did not return to the veranda again. Something, perhaps the excitement of the day, had given him a splitting headache and a queer feeling all over that was difficult to define. So he undressed, climbed into bed, and, cuddling Muggins closely to him, fell off into a dream-troubled slumber.