Barbour Ralph Henry
Captain of the Crew

CHAPTER XXV
“ARE YOU READY? GO!”

Trevor read the tables and laid down the copy of the Marshall Morning Reporter with a sigh and stared across the little lawn at the village street. Muggins worried the newspaper for a moment, and then, observing Trevor’s attitude, cuddled up to him in sympathy, and thumped the porch floor with what, had it been in his power, he would have called his tail. The paper fluttered off across the gravel driveway, and he cocked his ears, meditating pursuit; but Trevor’s hand had now found his head; the sun was warm; it was comforting to be rubbed; and so he only blinked sleepily and sat quiet.

Saturday, the 15th of June, had dawned warm and clear. Over the river a little blue mist hung until a strong breeze swept across the water from the west, kicking up quite a rumpus along the eastern shore. The town was already well filled with visitors, among them not a few graduates of Hillton and St. Eustace, who had arrived the preceding evening. The quiet old village was decked in holiday attire, and its shrewd innkeepers and merchants were rubbing their hands in anticipation of the yearly harvest.

Three of the Hillton crew had complained at the breakfast table that morning of having lame backs, while Talbot, a substitute, was clearly out of the question, having no appetite and not a little fever.

“I always said there was malaria in this place,” complained Kirk, “it’s so low. We had some trouble last year, do you remember, Hope? Benson was attacked with fever, although it left him at noon and he was all right again. That’s where St. Eustace has the better of us; she’s used to this place, and we’re not. I believe it wouldn’t be a half bad plan next year to leave coming here until the morning of the race.”

And Trevor, sitting on the edge of the porch, engaged with Muggins’s ears, heard and was comforted. He had awoke that morning after an unrefreshing sleep with a most uncomfortable sensation of goneness and a bewildering heaviness in his head. His eyes seemed tired, as though he had been reading long and hard, his lips were parched, and as the morning went on a feeling of feverishness alarmed him. At breakfast he had forced himself to eat, much against the inclination of his stomach, for fear that Kirk would perceive his condition and keep him out of the boat. He was not used to illness, and was inclined to attribute his unpleasant condition to nervousness. And now Kirk’s words encouraged him; it was quite likely that he had got into a similar condition to that of the unknown Benson; if so it would be all right when noon came; all he had to do was to look cheerful so that Kirk wouldn’t discover his state. So he grinned as broadly as possible, and whistled one of his tuneless tunes. And for a time his indisposition really left him, or very nearly did so, and during the hour of easy work on the river and the subsequent fifteen minutes of starting practice he was able to work well and even brilliantly, and was certain that his illness was past.

The race was down for half-past three. After work in the shell was over and the craft was safe in the little boat-house some half mile from the hotel, the crew and substitutes, with the exception of the unfortunate Talbot, were taken on a long, unhurried walk along the river under the guidance of Kirk, who tried to keep their thoughts as much as possible off of the coming contest. The nervousness that had begun to make its appearance gradually subsided under the soothing influence of quiet country lanes and wood paths, and at twelve the fellows returned to the hotel looking fresh and untroubled.

The hostelry meanwhile had filled with a merry and excited throng of Hillton boys and graduates, and had become a veritable blaze of crimson. Muggins was beside himself with delight; never before had he received so much attention; he welcomed each new arrival with frantic barks of joy, and scampered about from one group to another, his brilliant blanket flashing restlessly hither and thither. Carl and Stewart and Todd and Williams and everybody else, apparently, had come down for the race, and all was tumult and laughter and handshaking. Old Hillton fellows who had not met for a year or more shouted greetings to each other across the corridor or struggled madly through the throngs to clap each other on the back. Into this scene pushed the returning crew, and as their presence was discovered the crowd broke into ringing cheers, and pressed about them, eager for a word with or a look at the youngsters upon whose broad shoulders rested their hopes.

At last, however, they managed to reach the parlor on the second floor, into whose sacred precincts admission was denied to all else. Trevor sank into a chair with a smothered groan. The former indisposition had returned with all its former force, and for a moment he sat dazed and faint. When he looked up he found Dick’s eyes upon him anxiously.

“What’s the matter, chum?”

Trevor smiled with an effort.

“Nothing, I fancy; just a bit – a bit tired.”

“Well, sneak off upstairs and lie down a while, like a good chap. We can’t have you going off, old fellow. Talbot’s the only chap that would be fit for your place, and he’s as limp as a rag. Take a rest before dinner.”

Trevor obeyed, and spent the next quarter of an hour at full length on his bed in the room which he shared with Dick and two others. He shut his eyes resolutely, telling himself that he would be all right after a nap. But sleep refused to come, and he lay and wondered over and over whether he would be able to take his place in the boat. If he wasn’t poor old Dick would be in a hard way, he thought. There were three substitutes there besides Talbot, but not one of them was accustomed to rowing at Number 4, and, for that matter, not one was fitted for the position. All he could do, he resolved, was to fight down the beastly sickness; once in the boat, he felt certain he would be able to do his work. Besides, there was the case of Benson; to be sure, it was already noon, and his fever, instead of taking itself off, seemed rather to be increasing; but perhaps he had it a little worse than Benson, and it would take longer to disappear. He pressed his hands hard over his forehead in a vain endeavor to ease his headache, and tried his best to go to sleep. And then the dinner gong sounded, and he made a hasty toilet and joined the rest in the parlor, where a private table was spread. The meal was a sorry affair. Even the fellows who had rowed against St. Eustace the year before showed signs of nervousness, while some of the less experienced were in a blue funk. Kirk worked heroically to keep their spirits up, but it was of no avail in most cases, and there was a palpable air of relief when the meal was over and they were free to hide their feelings by moving about and talking to their heart’s content. A half-hour later the march to the boat-house was begun, and a crowd of admirers followed in their wake. Once in their places much of the nervousness wore off, and, cheered by the throng on shore, Hillton’s crew paddled out into the stream and set leisurely off for the start.

In the open air Trevor’s headache lessened, and he felt much better. Dick, who had been plainly anxious about him, found encouragement from his fresher looks and heaved a sigh of relief. As they paddled slowly up the river a sound of distant cheering reached them, and at a command from Keene they rested upon their oars and glanced up-stream and across to the St. Eustace boat-house. The rival eight were stepping into their shell. One after another the blue-clad youths took their places. Then they put out into the stream and dropped down the river toward the Hillton boat.

“There’s a good deal of splashing there,” said Dick.

“Yes.” Keene watched the oncoming crew attentively. “Yes, port side’s terribly ragged. But they look a powerful lot. Touch her easy, Seven. That’ll do.”

At a little distance up-stream the St. Eustace shell made a wide turn, the eight rowers for a moment resting upon their oars and sending a hearty cheer across the blue water. Hillton returned the compliment and her rival moved away again.

“They look a bit heavier than us,” said Shield from the bow of the boat.

“Only about a pound,” answered Dick, watching the shell creep up-stream; “that is, according to their weights, you know. But I’ll wager that Richardson weighs more than a hundred and forty-five.”

“Yes, and Wells is more than seventeen years old,” said Taylor.

“I dare say. What time is it, Keene?”

“Five after.”

“Well, let’s go up. By Jove, fellows, what a day for it!” Dick took a deep breath of the brisk, invigorating air, sweet with the fragrance of lush meadows and moist woods, and turned smilingly to Taylor. “How do you feel?”

“Too good to describe,” answered Number 7 heartily. “I could row ten miles instead of two.”

“Good boy,” said Dick. He gazed up the length of the shell. Answering smiles met him from bright eyes and glowing faces, save in one case. Trevor grinned broadly; he even essayed a wink; but the grin was somewhat awry and the wink was a poor thing. Dick frowned, and, turning, gripped his oar with his exuberance lessened.

“Ready all! Forward! Paddle!”

The shell crept up-stream between banks sprinkled with spectators, hurrying, in most cases, toward the finish line or some midway point of vantage. At the start quite a throng had assembled to see the boats get away. The Terrible, bearing a number of Hillton representatives, chugged alongside, and from her deck Kirk gave his last commands in low tones to Dick and Keene. Then he spoke briefly to the crew, and a moment later both shells backed to the starting-line.

Trevor saw the throng through a light mist. With his hands gripping the oar he stared in growing misery at the neck of Number 5 and waited, wondering for the tenth time how much longer the suspense would last. To the left of him was the St. Eustace boat. The fellows were peeling off their sweaters and some were whispering. Then Trevor was removing his own sweater, and the referee was talking to them about something; what it was he didn’t know nor care. If only they would start! He heard Keene’s voice: “Get ready!” He went forward on his slide, turned his blade square in the water, and felt it snug against the thole-pin.

“I shall say ‘Are you ready?’ once; if I receive no reply I shall say ‘Go!’”

The referee’s voice came through the megaphone with sudden warning.

“Touch her easy, Two,” said the cox in quiet unconcerned tones. “That’ll do; steady, Two!”

Trevor’s gaze, suddenly roaming to the other boat, saw the rival cox, a red-haired, spidery-looking youth, bending forward, his eyes alert but steady, his hands gripped tight about the lines. The little throng near at hand had grown quiet, almost silent. His head ached a bit, and his eyes —

“Are you ready?”

His heart gave a leap that threatened to choke him; then sank quickly, suddenly; he waited – waited. Would the word never come? The breeze was ruffling the back of Waters’s shirt. The sun was very bright, and the small waves reflected its rays in the manner of a thousand mirrors. Surely the referee had —

“GO!”

There was a rush of blades through the water, a sudden leap, a confused rattling of many oars, a seething on every side, a shouting from bank and boats. The race was on!

CHAPTER XXVI
AT THE MILE

Splash! Swish! Rattle!

The oars dug into the water venomously, swirled through, emerged dripping and flashing, disappeared again. Brown, sinewy arms shot forward and back, bodies bent and unbent like powerful springs, the water was thrown in little cascades of glistening pearls, and the coxswains, open-mouthed, intense, cried unintelligible things in the uproar, and looked like vindictive little demons crouching for a spring. There was no long, rhythmic swing of the oars now; there was nothing inspiring to the spectators in the quick, dashing movements of the sweeps; all seemed without system, incoherent.

Ten – eleven – twelve – thirteen – fourteen strokes! Then the savage struggle was past, and out from the momentary chaos of uproar and turmoil and seething water the Hillton shell shot into the lead, its bobbing cox even with Number Four of the St. Eustace boat.

“Steady all! Lengthen out! Lengthen out!”

The plunging dips of the eight crimson-bladed oars ceased. Stroke, with a quick glance at the other boat, moved back to the full limit of the slide, his sweep swirled steadily, almost slowly, through the quieter water, came out square, turned, feathered over yards of racing ripples, and again lost itself under the gleaming surface.

“Time! Time!” yelled cox.

And now backs were bending in perfect unison, oarlocks rattled as one, and rowing superbly at thirty-two strokes to the minute, the crimson eight forced the shining cedar craft away until clear water showed between its rudder and the knifelike bow of its rival. Hillton had gained the first trick, and, although the game was by no means yet won, Dick’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, Keene allowed a smile to cross his face, and on the Terrible, racing along in the wake of the speeding shells, Professor Beck and Coach Kirk glanced at each other and nodded. Across the intervening tide came, shrilly, insistent, the cry of the St. Eustace coxswain:

“Hit her up! Hit her up! Hit her up!”

In response eight blue-clad bodies bent and strained in an endeavor to place their shell beside Hillton’s, and eight blue-tipped oars flashed swiftly back and forth. St. Eustace was rowing thirty-seven. Dick shot a glance of inquiry at Keene. The latter glanced over his right shoulder.

“Can’t keep it up,” he answered to Stroke’s unspoken question. “Four, you’re late!”

Slowly the bow of the St. Eustace boat crept up on them; now it was abreast of their rudder; a dozen strokes more and it was even with cox; a minute later St. Eustace’s bow oar was cutting the water opposite to Dick. But there was no alteration of the latter’s stroke. For a minute or two the Blue’s boat hung tenaciously to the place it had won; then, inch by inch, it dropped astern again, yet so slowly that it was long before Dick was certain that it was so. The Blue was rowing at thirty-three now, and very wisely husbanding her strength. The half-mile was past, and the race was a quarter over.

Down at the finish crowds lined the shores and stood packed into a restless mass on the great iron bridge that spans the river a few rods below the imaginary line. The scene was a bright one. Overhead the summer sky arched warmly blue, a vast expanse of color unbroken save in the west, where a soft bank of cumulate clouds lay one upon the other like giant pillows. The river reflected the intense azure of the heavens and caught the sunlight on every ripple and wave until from long gazing upon it the eyes were dazzled into temporary blindness. On each side the banks were thickly wooded save that here and there a square or quadrangle of radiant turf stretched from the margin of the stream upward and away to some quiet mansion leaf-embowered in the distance. The western side of the river was deep-toned with shadows for a little space, and there upon the bank the trees held a promise of the twilight in their dark foliage. Up the stream, to the right, Marshall dozed in the afternoon, a picturesque group of white buildings, studded here and there with clumps of green; a long, low factory building stood by the water and glowed warmly red in the sunlight. Across the river and almost opposite to the village St. Eustace Academy sprawled its half-dozen edifices down the southern slope of a gentle hill, but only the higher towers and gables showed above the big elms that stood sentinel about it.

Along the bridge and up and down both shores by the finish crimson flags and streamers shone side by side with the deep blue banners of the rival school. Gay hats and bright-hued dresses pricked out the throngs. Field-glasses now and then gave aid to eager eyes, and everywhere was an atmosphere of impatience and excitement. Many nerves were a-tingle there that sunny afternoon, while far up the river, like thin bright streaks upon the water, the two boats, to all appearances side by side, sped onward toward victory or defeat. It was anybody’s race as yet, said the watchers on the bridge; and indeed it looked so, not alone to them, but to the spectators in the launches and tugs that followed the shells, to the officials in their speeding craft, to the occupants of the slender cedar racing-ships themselves – to all save one.

Trevor Nesbitt, toiling over his oar with white, set face, was alone certain that defeat was to be the harvest of the eight heroes in crimson. But although he alone was sure, it is possible that Keene was already scenting disaster, for the coxswain was staring ahead at Trevor with frowning brow and anxious eyes.

“Brace up, Four! You’re late!”

Trevor heard the cry as one half asleep hears the summons to awake; he wondered why cox didn’t speak louder; but he brought his wandering thoughts back the next instant and bore doggedly at his oar. Yes, he could still row; one more stroke; now, yet one more; and still another. It seemed as though each must be his last, and yet, when it was done, strength still remained for another, weaker, slower, but still another. Ever since the half-mile had been passed he had been on the verge of collapse. He was faint and weak and dizzy; the blue sky and glistening water were merged in his failing sight into one strange expanse of awful, monotonous blue that revolved behind him in mighty sweeps like a monster cyclorama. Often it was dotted with craft that trailed soft, gray vapor behind them; often the lights were suddenly turned quite out, and the world was left in impenetrable blackness, and he closed his eyes and was glad.

“Four! Four! What’s the matter? Brace up, man!”

And then he opened his aching eyes again, slowly, unwillingly, to find the world for the moment normal; to see the muscles of Waters’s neck straining like cords; to see a line of crimson bodies working back and forth; to wonder with alarm why he was sitting there motionless when every one else was at work, and then to suddenly discover that he, too, was going forward and back on the slide, and in time with the other toilers. In one such moment he looked aside and saw a line of blue figures moving like automatons almost even with them. He wondered if they knew – those automatons – that they were going to win. He could tell them, but he wouldn’t; not a word. A funny little figure apparently sliding up and down at the stern reminded him of a ridiculous image of a heathen god he had once seen in a museum. It was very funny. He tried to grin —

“Eyes in the boat, Four!” shrieked the coxswain shrilly, angrily.

Trevor wondered who he was talking to. Strange that he should talk when they were losing the race; silence – silence like his own – would have been more fitting. There was a sudden jerk at his arms that for the instant brought him back to reality. He didn’t know what had happened; possibly he had struck a snag; but he found the time again after a fashion and worked on doggedly, as a machine might work, with neither sensation nor spirit. He had caught a crab, but he didn’t know it then. Suddenly an almost overmastering hatred of the tossing blue line across the little breadth of water surged over him. They would win, the beasts, the monsters! And the little heathen image that slid up and down at the end would be happy! And Dick and Keene and all the others would be miserable and heartbroken! Heaven, how he hated those monsters in blue and the little red-haired heathen image!

The cox was talking again now; what was it he said? Water? Cox wanted water; surely some one could get him water? But he had said Five, hadn’t he? Well, he wasn’t Five, and so – What was this? He was wet! Oh, yes, Five was splashing him desperately with water. He wondered why and wished he’d stop; it got into his eyes and mouth and bothered him.

“Four, brace up, can’t you? It’s almost over!” pleaded cox from a great distance.

What was almost over? Trevor opened his eyes and drew his white, dripping forehead into a puzzled frown. Oh, yes, the race! His mind and vision cleared, and he saw things as they were; saw Keene’s eyes looking at him despairingly, saw the cox of the St. Eustace boat slide by him and disappear; saw the one mile buoy rush astern; saw himself, huddled over his motionless oar that dragged, splashing, on the surface. His brain was once more clear. He seized the oar handle, and tried to draw it to him. It was no use. He tried to explain it all to Keene in one long, agonized look. Then he saw the only way by which he could aid, and summoning a semblance of strength, with a deep breath, he reached out, and with trembling, nerveless fingers unlocked his oar and dropped it aside. It was lost to sight on the instant.

“Careful, Four!” warned the cox.

Trevor steadied himself with a hand on the gunwale, brought his reluctant body half erect, and then flung himself over the side. He heard the coxswain’s voice for an instant:

“Mind oars, Five and Seven!”

Then the waters closed over his head.