Barbour Ralph Henry
Captain of the Crew
CHAPTER XXVII
AT THE FINISH
“Bow side, raise your hands!” yelled the cox. “Get her level! Six, throw more weight out-board. That’s better! Now hard, all! We can do it yet!”
Dick, with dismay at heart, had seen the rival boat creep up and pass them, and had listened despairingly to cox’s words:
“Four’s given out!”
Then came the command to Five to throw water over Trevor. Dick, not daring to turn his head for an instant, rowed on desperately, watching Keene’s face for any glimmer of hope that might show thereon.
“No use,” said cox presently in low tones. “He’s a goner! His oar’s trailing. Hello! Easy now!”
Dick saw the light of hope creep into the other’s eyes.
“Mind oars, Five and Seven! Four’s gone over the side!”
And then Dick caught sight of a brown arm gleaming just under the surface, and as he once more took up the stroke, far astern a dripping head emerged, was visible for a moment, and again disappeared under the dancing wavelets. Dick closed his eyes, an awful horror gripping him. Trevor had gone down!
“Careful, Stroke! Take your time!” cautioned Keene.
Dick opened his eyes again and looked up the stream, and hope came to him. One of the launches – it looked like the Terrible – had crossed into the wakes of the shells. If Trevor only came up again! Dick cried within him. And even while his thoughts took the form of a wild, incoherent prayer he saw the launch circle to port and stop. And when she once more swung about the sunlight glowed on a dripping crimson shirt.
“Safe!” cried Dick aloud. Keene nodded and glanced anxiously ahead. Dick with thankful heart tugged stoutly at his oar.
“Where are they?” he gasped.
“Three lengths ahead,” answered Keene. “We’re holding them now.” He raised his voice. “Six, you’ve got to do two men’s work now! Long and steady does it! Bow, you’re late! Steady all!”
The mile buoy was far astern. St. Eustace, rowing well at thirty-six, was, as Keene had said, three lengths in the lead. Trevor’s dead weight and dragging oar had given her her chance. Her crew had seen the trouble in the Hillton shell, and, whatever their emotions were, they were now confident of success, for a three-length lead and eight oars to seven spelled victory for the Blue. The St. Eustace coxswain glanced back over his shoulder and gave a command to the men. The distance had not increased since the Crimson’s Number 4 had gone overboard; that wouldn’t do. The blue-clad eight hit up their stroke. But Keene had been watching and waiting. He would rather have had the struggle come later, in the last half mile; but there was no help for it.
“Now, fellows, ten hard ones and together! Swing out and use your legs! One!.. Two!.. Three!..”
For the first time in the race the seven boys put every bit of weight and muscle into their strokes. They all knew what the words meant; St. Eustace, somewhere ahead there, was spurting and trying to draw away; if she succeeded it was all up with them. Backs bent and sprang, slides sped from stop to stop, arms and legs straightened and doubled until muscles knotted like ropes beneath tanned skin, blades cleaved the surface like ruddy knives and emerged yards distant to skim and flash over the swirling, racing water for the next grip, breaths came in deep gasps, and the shell flew forward, seeming rather to skim the surface as a darting swallow skims the bosom of a pond, than to cleave the glinting water.
“Seven!.. Eight!.. Nine!.. Ten!” counted the coxswain. “Don’t slacken! Keep her going! We’re gaining on them hand over fist! Hard, all, hard, and use your legs for all that’s in ’em!”
And gaining they were. With seven oars instead of eight, with a boat that listed plainly to bow-side, they were gaining! St. Eustace’s coxswain looked back again; again shrieked to his crew. But this time the response was not evident. They were doing their best. As the beginning of the last half-mile was reached the voice of the bobbing figure in the stern of the St. Eustace shell came to Dick’s ears, and his heart leaped at the sound:
“Hit her up! Hit her up! Hit her up!”
Dick, his face streaming with perspiration, his hands burning on the oar-handle, peeked out of the corners of his eyes to the left for a glimpse of the screaming cox. But not yet. His boat was gaining, swiftly, steadily, but three lengths is a long distance to cut down with your rivals rowing at forty strokes to the minute.
“Lengthen out, Stroke!” called Keene.
The seven rowers steadied down and swung longer. The mile and one half point was already far astern, and Keene could see the faces of the crowds at the finish distinctly. For the first time since the start he met Dick’s eyes and smiled. Then, and as it seemed to Dick, from almost at his side, came a shrill cry:
“Eyes in the boat, Seven! Finish out, Six, finish out!”
It was the St. Eustace coxswain, and at the same moment a speck trembled just within the field of Dick’s vision at the left. The next instant it took shape; he could see the rival boat’s rudder, a portion of the stern, with the steering lines white and gleaming in the sunlight. They were almost even! He was conscious of a new sound, quite distinct from the working of the slides, the rattle of the locks and the rush of oars – a confused murmur that gradually took shape and resolved itself into the cheering of human voices. Surely the finish-line was at hand! He glanced at Keene. That youth, white beneath the tan of his face, with perspiration standing upon his forehead in little glistening beads, was looking straight ahead, with every thought straining toward the goal.
“Now, once more, all!” screamed the St. Eustace coxswain. “Pick her up! You’re not half rowing! Five, steady down! Four, you’re late, you’re late! Row! Row!”
And then the little red-haired youth also crept into Dick’s sight; a pale-faced, despairing figure, crouching there in the stern, bobbing forward and back as though to hurl his boat across the line by his own unaided efforts. One glance at his face brought a flood of joy to Dick! St. Eustace was already beaten – and that white-faced cox knew it! In the next minute a qualm of pity for the struggling opponents came to him, only to be swallowed up in a great wave of triumph as he found himself opposite to the St. Eustace stroke. The three lengths were gone and the two boats were even at last!
The shouting from the shore was louder, and Dick could distinguish the cheers of his schoolmates from the slogan of St. Eustace’s supporters. But how he wished for the end! His breath seemed gone, and every respiration shook his body from head to feet. The perspiration on his face had turned to little drops of ice-water. The river danced and wavered in his sight. His arms were like bars of lead, and his legs from hips to toes seemed no longer connected with the upper portion of him, but were dead, benumbed; he could have put his hand on the very place where they had been cut off. Surely they were at the line now! Surely it was time to get into the lead! He glanced appealingly at Keene.
The latter drew the port rudder-line to him slowly for an inch. Then he turned toward the speeding boat beside him and looked it over, up and down; Two was splashing badly; Four was rolling on his seat like a drunken man; Stroke was plainly worked out; his eyes met those of the red-haired cox; the latter glared across at him vindictively. He turned again and ran his eyes over his own boat: Bow was weakening, but still steady; Six was struggling blindly with half-closed eyes; the balance of the seven were still strong for that period of a two-mile race. He looked ahead at the boats and the bridge above, dark with humanity.
“Two hundred yards!” shrieked the St. Eustace coxswain. “Now pick her up! We’ve got the race if you’ll only take it! Stroke, for Heaven’s sake, man, pick her up! Row!.. Row!.. Row!”
Two hundred yards! Dick looked at Keene; the latter nodded. Dick rattled his hands away quickly.
“Hit her up all!” cried Keene. “Here’s the finish! Row now, row for Hillton! We’ve got to win!”
“Now then, fellows!” gasped Dick. His blade went under for a hard, desperate stroke, and the next moment seven bodies were straining at the oars in a last, heroic endeavor.
“Well done, all! Keep it up! Keep it up! Once more! Well rowed, fellows! Well rowed! We’re gaining! Use your legs! Well rowed!”
Keene’s voice arose loud and full of encouragement. From across the little path of intervening water came the shrill reiterant appeals of the other coxswain:
“Hard! Hard! We’ve got them! Keep going! Another stroke or two! Hard! Row hard!”
The air was full of the cheers of the excited watchers and the blatant screams of the whistles of surrounding craft. To Dick it was all a confused babel of awful sound. He had closed his eyes, fearing to see the rival boat slipping from sight. But now, gathering courage, he looked. They were in a lane of assembled craft, from which arose streams and clouds of steam; beyond the noisy gathering the river bank was lined with moving throngs; beside him – His heart sank; the St. Eustace boat was gone! The little bobbing coxswain, the toiling stroke oar, were no longer beside him! He looked despairingly at Keene; something in the latter’s expression sent his glance beyond, and joy rushed back to his heart. The rival boat was a length behind! He closed his eyes again from sheer happiness, and tugged on at the oar. The uproar was deafening, but suddenly, above it all, he heard the coxswain’s voice:
“Let her run!”
When he looked up again, raising his head from his hot, trembling hands, he found to his surprise that his eyes were wet. They were in shadow now, and he glanced up to find the arches of the bridge above them. The noise was less. He blinked through wet lashes at Keene. The latter was grinning happily, foolishly.
“Length and a quarter, about,” he said.
From the bridge overhead and from the throng beyond came cheers for Hillton.
CHAPTER XXVIII
TREVOR IS COMFORTED
It was an hour short of sunset when Trevor awoke. The room was darkened, but now and then the curtain at the open window was stirred by the languorous breeze and admitted a broad bar of sunlight which lengthened across the floor and was gone again as the curtain fell back into place. The hotel was almost silent, though at intervals the hum of voices came subduedly to the boy in the bed, and at times he caught the clatter of dishes.
For many minutes he lay quiet. Everything was very peaceful and soothing, and he closed his eyes once more, but only to reopen them as his mind took up his work again. Where was he and how came he there? It wasn’t his room at Hillton; this wasn’t his narrow iron bed; the wall-paper was all wrong; the carpet was different, and the window was entirely out of place. And then, too, it was much too big, this high-ceilinged, square apartment. He raised himself on his elbow and examined his surroundings. He was quite alone, but on a small table beside him were two tumblers half full of something, a pitcher, two silver spoons, and a watch.
He reached forth and drew the latter toward him. It was his own, and its hands indicated twenty after six. His gaze roamed about the room and fell upon a pair of canvas rowing shoes. Then memory returned, and he sank back upon the pillow with a groan, closing his eyes and moving his head restlessly from side to side as his thoughts went back over the day’s events. He remembered the awful period in the boat; it seemed now as he looked back upon it as though it must have been hours and hours, though he knew that from the time of starting until he had plunged into the river but five or six minutes could have elapsed; he remembered a world of green, silent water about him, a brief glare of blue sky and flashing sunlight, many faces bending above him, and then, but very indistinctly, a man with gray mustaches who raised him up and made him swallow something.
He was rather tired and listless now, but his headache was gone and his fever had passed away, and – yes, he felt pretty well. Perhaps he had best get up and dress himself; it would soon be time to return to Hillton. If only some one would come and tell him. But of course no one cared much about him now; how could they? It was natural that he should be left alone, he who had lost the race for Hillton. He sighed and clenched his hands above the white spread. What must they think of him? His cheeks reddened at the thought of facing Dick and Kirk and all the others. Of course, Dick would make light of it, and he was sure that Kirk would carefully abstain from saying anything to hurt his feelings; and perhaps the other fellows would be very decent about it. But in their hearts they must hate him; it was only natural. He was glad that the school year was almost over; perhaps next year it would be partly forgotten; perhaps he needn’t return to Hillton at all!
Suddenly, from a little distance, came a sound of noisy laughter. He frowned. How could any one laugh, he wondered indignantly. The thought came to him that maybe some one down there had spoken his name, and he felt his face burning hotly with shame. He turned over and laid his head on his arm and closed his eyes wearily. He wished Muggins was there. It was very still again. A long tremor shook him and he felt a tiny scorching tear roll down his cheek. He brushed it away quickly, but another took its place, and still another, and presently, while the sunlight moved from the western window, he fell asleep again.
When next he woke the room was in twilight darkness, although the curtain had been rolled away from the open window. There were two figures by the little table, and he heard low voices:
“Is he awake?”
“I guess not. It’s time for his medicine, isn’t it?”
“Yes, shall I wake him?”
“I don’t know. Let’s wait a minute or two.”
The figures moved across the room and darkened the square of the casement. Trevor laid very still; perhaps they would go away again if he feigned sleep. He could hear them conversing softly, but couldn’t distinguish their words because – because there was such a noise outside! What was it? He could hear shouting and sometimes the blare of a band. It must be at the front of the hotel. St. Eustace was celebrating her victory probably, and Hillton’s defeat! He groaned and tossed an arm despairingly. One of the figures turned and walked toward him.
“Awake, Trevor?”
It was Dick’s voice. For a moment Trevor was silent; then he answered with a sigh:
“Yes.”
The second figure came and leaned over him and he saw that it was Kirk.
“How are you feeling now, chum?” asked Dick, with all the old affection in his voice. Trevor felt his eyes growing moist, and he had to gulp twice before he could answer.
“All right, Dick; I think I can get up now.”
“Get up! Indeed, you’ll not. You’re to stay here to-night, and I’m going to stay with you. The others are getting ready to go back now; can you hear them?”
“Let’s see what the boy looks like,” said Kirk. “I’ll light the gas and give him his medicine.”
“Don’t, please don’t!” cried Trevor. It was all so much easier in the darkness.
“All right,” Kirk answered cheerfully. “I dare say it would hurt your eyes. But here’s the stuff. Open your mouth.”
Trevor obeyed, and after several misadventures the medicine was administered. Dick had seated himself on the side of the bed and had taken one of the other lad’s hands in his own.
“Trevor.”
“Yes?”
“A length and a third, old chap!”
Trevor sighed, and then, “I – I suppose it might have been worse, Dick?”
“Worse?” cried Dick. “What are you talking about? Why, we’re awfully proud of it, every one of us! Aren’t we, Mr. Kirk?”
“Yes, and we have good cause, I think. It was magnificent!”
“And, Trevor,” went on Dick in tones so full of happiness that Trevor wondered, “all the fellows want you to hurry up and get well; and we all cheered you at dinner till the plaster nearly fell on us!”
“Cheered me!” whispered Trevor. “Cheered me, Dick? Do you mean – do you mean that they – that you all forgive me?”
“Forgive you? What for? Because you were the pluckiest of any of us and did the brainiest sort of thing when you jumped overboard?”
“Because – oh, Dick, don’t you see? If I hadn’t been so bull-headed it wouldn’t have happened; if I’d owned up that I wasn’t feeling well you could have put another fellow in. But I heard Mr. Kirk telling about some fellow who had the fever and how it left him at noon; and I thought mine would, too; and so I went ahead, and – and it didn’t go away, but got worse every minute; I was all silly in my head. And – don’t you see, Dick, if I’d done right we wouldn’t have been beaten?”
There was a moment’s silence. Then —
“He doesn’t know!” said Kirk softly.
“By Jove!” whispered Dick. “Of course he doesn’t; how could he? Thunder, how stupid of me!” He laughed softly, happily. “Trevor, old chap, we weren’t beaten! Don’t you understand? We won!”
There was a second brief silence. Then —
“Won!” breathed Trevor, incredulously.
“Yes, by a length and a third. I told you, don’t you remember? But you didn’t understand.”
“You – you’re just saying it to – to make me feel better,” doubted Trevor.
“No, honestly, chum; we won. Mr. Kirk will tell you.”
“Yes, Nesbitt, we won finely; there’s no doubt about that. Listen.”
From below, through the open window, came the martial strains of a band; Trevor recognized the tune; it was “Hilltonians.” And then, faintly but distinctly, came a hoarse voice:
“Now, fellows! Once more! Three times three for Hillton!”
The music was blotted out by a mighty cheer that arose to the starlit sky in a roar of triumph. Trevor was glad of the darkness, for there were tears in his eyes that threatened every moment to overflow; but they were tears of happiness, and somehow those didn’t count.
“And – and they don’t mind that I – that I did what I did?” whispered Trevor. “They don’t hate me for it, Dick?”
“Hate you!” cried Dick. “Hark!”
Through the casement, a gray rectangle of twilight, the strained voice of the leader again floated:
“Now, fellows! Fellows! Once more for Nesbitt, and all together! One – two – ”
And while the hoarse, joyful cheers responded, and the bass-drum thumped triumphantly, Trevor, with his hand tightly clasped in Dick’s, laid his head back very contentedly upon the pillow.
