Barbour Ralph Henry
Four Afoot: Being the Adventures of the Big Four on the Highway

CHAPTER XIII
WHEREIN THEY MEET THE WILD MAN OF THE TARTARY STEPPES

They were talking it over. It was after five o’clock and they were sitting in the deserted dressing tent, to which Dan, as was his privilege as a member of “America’s Greatest Circus and Hippodrome,” had invited them. Barry was curled up in Dan’s lap. Jerry had taken himself away to his duties.

“I knew I could do it,” Dan was explaining. “When Jerry told about it I just made up my mind that if the money didn’t come I’d go to Murray and ask for the place. And I did. He didn’t think I was quite right in my mind at first, but I asked him to let me show what I could do, and finally he agreed. Then” – Dan grinned reminiscently – “then I borrowed two dollars and a half from him, half the pay for one performance – ”

“Gosh! Did he only give you five dollars for doing that?” asked Tom.

“Well, I wanted more, but he said he’d only paid Donello five, so I gave in. Then I had some lunch in the village, found you fellows, gave you that two dollars, and went to the tent. They had got the ladder and tank filled up, and I got into my tights. Jerry went with me to see fair play. He didn’t want me to try it, Jerry didn’t, but I shut him up and made him promise not to tell you fellows.”

“Lucky you did,” grunted Bob.

“That’s what I thought,” laughed Dan. “But, pshaw, it wasn’t any stunt! Just a straight drop; and there wasn’t any possibility of missing the tank.”

“But supposing you had?” asked Nelson quietly. Dan turned and looked at him a second.

“Well, then I’d got considerably messed up, I guess,” he answered soberly. “Well, I tried a dive from about twenty feet up first; the platform is adjustable, you see; and it went all right. Then I went clear up and tried it from the top. And that went all right too. It seemed a long ways down at first, and I wondered whether the tank would stay there until I got to it. But it did. Then I did it again and tried a somersault. Murray was tickled to death. ‘You stay with us,’ he said, ‘and you’ll be making big money in a year or two.’ Then I thought to myself, what’s the use in doing only one flop when there’s lots of time for two? I asked Murray, but he didn’t like it at first. Said Donello was considered one of the best in the business and he was always satisfied with one turn. But I made up my mind to try it, and I did. It was dead easy. Murray wanted to hug me. Then he wanted me to sign a contract for six months and went up on his price; offered me two hundred dollars a month for two performances daily.”

“Gee!” gasped Tom.

“Well, that’s what I thought,” answered Dan with a laugh. “And I had to think a long while before I got up courage to say no. But that wasn’t the last of it. He’s after me yet. Maybe he’ll get me after all.”

“Not if I know it!” said Nelson indignantly. “I’d send for your dad the first thing. Nice stunts for a chap who’s just out of bed from typhoid fever!”

“Just out of bed, your granny! Well, anyway, I’ve agreed to do it again to-night.”

“You have!”

“Yep.”

“Oh, cut it out,” said Bob. “We’ve got money enough. Besides, maybe your dad’s telegram is at the office by this time.”

“I know, but I can’t go back on my promise, and I promised to perform twice.”

“Well, don’t you go and try to improve on it,” begged Nelson. “Don’t try to put in three somersaults instead of two.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Dan, grinning, “that’s an idea! I hadn’t thought of that!”

“Shut up!” begged Nelson. “If you try that trick you’ll be Done-ello for sure.”

“Instead of Danello,” added Tom.

“Wasn’t it great about Barry?” asked Nelson. “He was on my lap and I didn’t know what he was up to until he was kiting across lots with his leash dangling after him. Did you hear the crowd laugh? Barry made the hit of the performance.”

“Well, how about supper? Suppose you fellows come with me. I’m to eat with the push here, and I guess Murray’ll let you come along if I agree to pay for you.”

“That’s dandy!” said Tom. “We’ll eat with Zul-Zul and the Wild Man!”

“You’d better look out, Tommy,” Bob advised. “Maybe he’ll eat you, you’re so fat and rosy.”

So Dan disappeared for a moment, and presently returned with the news that Murray had given him permission to take the others to supper as his guests.

“He’s mighty nice to you, isn’t he?” asked Nelson sarcastically.

That supper was one of the ever-remembered features of the trip. Jerry found places for them at one end of the long table, and they looked about them with frank curiosity. Overhead naphtha torches flared, throwing deep shadows on the pine boards that formed the table. The sides of the tent were up here and there, and from without came the sound of the crickets, the voices of Mr. Foley and his companion at the stoves, and the scrape and clash of pans and utensils. Inside, the air became hot and heavy under the shallow curve of canvas, the tin plates and cups glimmered, the steam drifted up from the hot viands, and the noise was at first deafening.

This was the first table, Jerry informed them, and accommodated the performers and the “staff,” the “staff” being the management. The canvasmen, drivers, animal men, and the other hands ate later at a second table. Across from the Four sat the ringmaster, between a pleasant-faced and rather elderly woman and a thin youth with pale cheeks whom Nelson recognized as the leader of the “family” of trick skaters. He wondered who the woman was, and would have been wondering yet, doubtless, had not his neighbor, a good-natured little Irishman, come to his assistance.

“You’re frinds of the laddie that did the jomp?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Nelson. “We four are together. We’re taking a walking trip along the island.”

“Is thot so? Well, I didn’t see the jomp myself, but I heard the boys talkin’ about it. ’Twas a pretty lape, they said.”

“Yes; but I was awfully scared. I was afraid he’d miss the tank.”

“I suppose so. Is he goin’ to shtay wid the show?”

“Oh, no; he only joined for to-day.” Nelson told briefly of the robbery and their subsequent adventures, and the little Irishman chuckled enjoyably.

“Sure, ’tis the plucky lad he is. But he’s right, the circus be’s no place for a gintleman.”

“Do you belong?” asked Nelson innocently. Then he blushed and stammered until the Irishman laughed his embarrassment away.

“Sure, there’s no offinse, me boy. I’m no gintleman. Yes, I belongs to the show. Now, what would you think I was, sir?”

Nelson studied him a moment and shook his head.

“Are you – are you a clown?”

“Faith, no,” chuckled the other, “’tis not as bad as thot. Was you in the side show? No? Well, you’d have seen me there if you’d been. They call me ‘Boris,’ bedad! ’Tis a disgraceful, onchristian name, but it’s money in me pocket.”

“Boris? Why, I thought Boris was the – the – ”

“The Wild Mon of the Tar-tary Shteppes? Thot’s me, me lad. Raw mate’s me shpecialty and I shpake no word of any known language.”

Nelson glanced at the Wild Man’s plate, well filled with steak and potatoes, and laughed. The Wild Man joined him.

“’Tis a faker I am. Me name’s Thomas Cronan an’ I was born in the wilds of County Clare, which is the grane garden spot of ould Ireland. Sure, we’re all fakers in the side show. Mrs. Wheet over there is ‘Princess Zoe’ and does thricks with three ould shnakes thot’s had the shtingers yanked out of them. She’s a lady, too, me boy, if iver there was one.”

Nelson, to his surprise, discovered that “Princess Zoe” was the nice-looking elderly lady at the ringmaster’s right.

“An’ further along there,” continued his informant, “is ‘Zul-Zul,’ which her name is Maude Harris. She used to be an equistreen – rode the horses, you know – till she had a fall and hurted her back. Thin she blached her hair and now they call her an al-bin-o, which is an ungodly name to my mind.”

“She – she sings, doesn’t she?” asked Nelson, observing the young lady in question.

“Same as onybody sings, me boy, no more an’ no less.”

“Oh,” said Nelson. “And do you – like being a Wild Man?”

“I do an’ I don’t,” responded the other judicially. “’Tis asy money, but the life’s confinin’. I’m thinkin’ I had the best of it when I was drivin’ the tent wagon. Thot’s what I used to do. Come an’ see me this avenin’, an’ bring your frinds. Tell Billy Conly, the feller outside, I said he was to let you in.”

“Thanks,” answered Nelson. “And I’ll bring some raw meat with me.”

“Sure,” answered the Wild Man, laughing as he arose from the table, “it’s kind of you, me boy, but I could ate no more to-night. We’re shmall aters on the Tar-tary Shteppes.”

After supper Nelson and Dan walked to the telegraph office, and this time found the money awaiting them. There was also a telegram from Mr. Speede.

“Away when your message came,” it read. “Have sent fifty. Sorry for delay. Try and write oftener and send address.”

“I guess they’re worrying about us having the money swiped,” said Dan. “I’ll write to-morrow. There ought to be some letters for us at Bahogue. Supposing we walk on there to-night after the show? It’s only about four miles and it’ll be fairly light, I guess. Wait.” He turned back to the operator. “What’s a good hotel at Bahogue?” he asked.

“There’s the Seaview and the Bahogue House. They’re both good, I guess.”

“Seaview sounds good to me,” said Dan. “Is there an office at Bahogue?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Give me a blank.”

“Reserve two rooms for me to-night,” wrote Dan. “Will arrive about midnight. D. H. F. Speede.”

“Will you get that off for me, please?” he asked.

They paid for the message, thanked the operator, said good night, and went back to the circus, Barry, off his leash for the moment, cutting all sorts of wild capers. Later the Four paid a visit to the side show. The performance in the main tent had begun, and they had the place almost to themselves. The Wild Man of the Tartary Steppes was seated in a chair on a platform. He was dressed in yellow tights with a strip of leopard skin about his hips and a string of bones about his neck. A formidable club rested against his knees. On his head was a wig of loose and long black hair, and his face was painted with black and red stripes. He was not attractive, but nevertheless the picture on the canvas outside was a base libel. He tipped Nelson a portentous wink, jabbered something at him, and made signs with his hands which Nelson translated as demands for raw meat. There were a few people wandering about the tent, and so Nelson and the others waited until they had gone before approaching the wild man. Then,

“Well, boys,” said Mr. Cronan, “how are ye the avenin’?”

“Fine,” answered Nelson. “I’ve brought my friends in to see you. They’ve never seen a Wild Man before.”

“Think of thot!” sighed Mr. Cronan. “Sure where was they edicated?”

“Are you going to eat any raw meat this evening?” asked Tom with a grin.

“Have you ony wid you?”

Tom had to acknowledge that he hadn’t.

“There it is, then,” sighed Mr. Cronan again. “How am I to ate it if I haven’t got it? ’Tis onreasonable you are, me lad.”

There were several photographs of the Wild Man lying along the edge of the platform, and Nelson picked one up and looked at it.

“Ain’t thot a beautiful thing?” asked Mr. Cronan. “Does it do me justice, do you think? Put it in your pocket, me boy, an’ show it to your frinds when you git home. Tell ’em ’tis the picter of a Wild Mon what chased ye down on Long Island.”

“I’d like to have it,” laughed Nelson, “but I’d rather pay you for it.”

“You pays nothin’,” answered Mr. Cronan firmly. “Put it in your pocket, like I say, wid me compliments. Howld on! Give it me a minute.” The Wild Man found a stump of a pencil in a hidden pocket, inverted the photograph on his knee, stuck his tongue in his cheek, and laboriously wrote. “There, ’tis much more valuable now.”

Nelson accepted it and thanked him. On the back was written in letters half an inch high: “Your frand, Thomas Cronan, the wild man.” They were formally introduced to the Snake Charmer, the Albino Patti, and the Fortune Teller; also to a sad-looking little man in a suit of misfit clothes whose duty it was to lecture about the attractions. Presently they said good-by to Mr. Cronan and went out to the ticket booth. Dan tried to pay for three reserved seats for his companions, but the ticket seller refused to accept any money.

“Go ahead in,” he said smilingly, pushing the tickets and the money toward them. “This is on the show.”

So they thanked him, presented their tickets, and were shown to seats, Dan, however, leaving them to go to the dressing tent and taking Barry with him. There was not so great a crowd as in the afternoon, but for all that the big tent was comfortably filled. They had grown to know a number of the performers by sight now, and the evening performance proved more interesting for that reason. Dan’s fame had spread, and when, near the end of the performance, he appeared at the foot of the ladder, quite a salvo of applause greeted him.

“Look at Barry!” exclaimed Tom.

Dan had brought the terrier in with him, and now, when he began to mount the ladder, Barry started after him. The audience laughed and clapped. Barry managed three rounds of the ladder by hooking his paws over them and dragging his body up, but that was as high as he could get. Three times he made the attempt and three times he tumbled off. Then he gave it up, barked once, and stood watching his master. As before, the tent became stilled, Dan’s voice came down eerily from the platform, the drums rolled, the ringmaster cracked his whip and shouted his shrill “In mid-air!” the dropping pink figure revolved twice, and the water splashed from the tank. Then, as the applause broke out, Dan’s wet head appeared, and Barry leaped frantically toward it. Fighting the terrier off, Dan scrambled from the tank with the assistance of two of the red-coated men, and, grabbing Barry in his arms, disappeared toward the dressing tent.

Afterwards they sought and found Jerry. The mess tent was gone, the wagon packed, and that department was all ready for the road.

“Where do you go next, Jerry?” Bob asked.

“Ridgefield,” answered Jerry. “It’s about forty miles. We travel all night.”

“Don’t you ever go by railroad?” asked Nelson.

“Not when we can help it. It costs more, you see. Some of the performers take the train, though.”

“Well, good-by, Jerry. Take care of yourself; and I’ll write to you soon. Where is it you’re going to work?”

“Mr. Osgood’s farm,” answered Jerry. “It’s about two miles from Barrington.”

“And you’ll be there in October?”

“Before, I guess,” answered Jerry. “There ain’t much money in this, an’ since I seen you fellows again – ”

He hesitated. Then,

“I kind of got more anxious to make that money,” he finished. “I guess I’ll leave the show about the twentieth.”

“Well, good luck, Jerry. We’ll see you again, I guess; anyway, I’ll write to you, because I think I’ll have some news for you.”

“What – what sort of news?” asked Jerry anxiously.

“Well, good news; I can’t tell you any more now. Good-by.”

They all shook hands, and then Jerry, as though loath to part from them, walked out to the road with them and called a final good-by from there.

“Did you get your money from the circus folks?” asked Tom of Dan, as, with packs once more on their backs, they strode off toward the village.

“You bet. But, say, fellows, I had an awful time getting away. Murray made all sorts of offers, and finally I promised him that if I ever changed my mind I’d let him know right away.”

“It was a crazy business,” observed Bob.

“But it found us our dinners,” said Tom philosophically.

“You can always be sure of Tommy’s point of view,” laughed Nelson.

It was a clear, calm night, and walking was a pleasure. They were all well rested, and the four miles intervening between Millford and Bahogue were soon covered. A few minutes before they reached the hotel the ocean sprang into view, and they heard the beat of the waves on the beach.

“Sounds good to me,” sighed Bob. “Who’s for a bath in the morning?”

Evidently all were, even Barry, who, excited by the chorus of assent, barked loudly. They found the Seaview House without difficulty, assaulted the office gong until a sleepy porter appeared, wrote their names on the register – Dan signing as “Signor Danello” – and were shown to their rooms.

“Gee!” sighed Dan a few minutes later as he pulled the covers down and rolled under them. “A real bed again! This thing of sleeping nigh to nature is all very fine, Nel, but – the downy couch for mine every time! Good night!”

CHAPTER XIV
TOM SWIMS IN THE OCEAN AND DIPS INTO POETRY

They were sitting on the big broad veranda of the hotel reading their letters. It was eleven o’clock of an ideal September day, and the guests, of whom there were many left despite the fact that the season was almost at its close, were strolling or lounging in the sunlight and making the most of what was likely to be summer’s last appearance. Beyond the road and the broad crescent of dazzling white beach lay Great South Bay blue and tranquil, the points of the little waves touched with gold. Three miles away, a line of gleaming yellow dunes, Fire Island stretched athwart the horizon.

The boys had donned clean clothes and, in their Sunday attire, looked quite respectable. After breakfast they had inquired the way to the post office and had reached it just in time to get their mail before it closed. Then, having purchased Sunday papers, they returned to the hotel veranda and settled down to read. Presently Nelson glanced up from the letter in his hand.

“Look here, fellows, this doesn’t sound very promising, does it?”

“What’s that?” asked Bob, looking up from his own epistle.

“Why, it’s a letter from dad. You know I wrote him about Jerry, and here’s what he says. Let me see… Oh!.. ‘Now, about that protégé you tell of. The matter of seventy-five or a hundred dollars doesn’t scare me, Nelson, but do you think your plan is feasible? Three hundred would probably carry the boy through one year at school, supposing he was able to pass the examinations, but what’s going to happen the next year? Of course he might get a scholarship to help him along, and it’s possible he might make some money doing some sort of work in the village, but he couldn’t count on these things. We might do the boy more harm than good, it seems to me. Presumably he is fairly content with his present lot, and it is a question in my mind whether it would not be advisable to let him go his own gait. If it was certain that he would not have to give up after a year or two and return to the farm and the life he is leading now, it would be different. But I don’t suppose the fathers of your friends would care to undertake to provide for him for the next four years. Certainly a good deal depends on the boy. You’ve seen him and I haven’t. Perhaps he’s got it in him to get the better of difficulties and work out his own salvation after the first year or two. That would make a difference. Supposing you think this over and let me hear from you again. Or we might talk it over after you return. And let me know what the other gentlemen say. Mind, this isn’t a refusal, and I shall be glad to donate a hundred or two if I can be sure that it is going to accomplish some good; but I don’t think it wise to go into anything of this sort without looking over it pretty thoroughly. There is a great deal of harm done by ill-advised charity.’”

“That’s just about what my father says,” said Tom.

“You’d almost think they’d got together and talked it over,” said Dan ruefully. “My dad gives me just about the same song and dance. How about yours, Bob?”

“He says: ‘Would advise placing the sum, say four hundred dollars, in the hands of some one, perhaps Mr. Speede, for disbursement on the lad’s account. Don’t believe it would be wise to pay the money over to him or his relatives. If you decide to go ahead with the proposition think I can interest Warren Chase, who is one of the trustees at Hillton. He might be able to afford assistance to the lad. Am taking it for granted that the lad is worthy of the assistance you propose; am willing to trust your judgment in this. One hundred is all I can afford at present, though it is possible that I might be able to help put Hinkley through a second year when the time came. Let me know when you want the money and I will forward check.’”

“Now, I call that businesslike,” said Dan approvingly. “My dad seems to think it’s all a bally joke; wants to know if Jerry had his money stolen too!”

“Well, let’s talk it over,” Nelson proposed. “Now, supposing we get enough money to pay one year’s expenses at Hillton, can Jerry pass the exams? He’s had no languages at all except one year’s Latin in a village school.”

“He ought to go to school this winter,” said Bob, “and take Math and Latin – hard.”

“Of course he ought! And he ought to have some coaching next summer. How’s he going to do it?”

“We need more money,” said Tom.

“Look here,” said Dan. “Talk sense. What’s to keep Jerry from going to school this winter? If we provide the money for the first year at that bum school of yours, why can’t he spend this winter and next summer studying?”

“That’s so,” said Nelson. “But how about the second year, and the third and the fourth?”

“What’s the use of troubling about that now?” asked Dan cheerfully. “Let’s get him started and I’ll bet you anything he’ll pretty nearly look after himself. As for next summer, it wouldn’t cost much to find a tutor for him. Why, we could see to that ourselves. I know two or three fellows in New York who would be mighty glad to coach him and do it cheap.”

“That’s the stuff!” cried Tom.

“What do you think, Bob?” Nelson asked.

“I think what Dan says is sense. Education never hurt any chap, and even if Jerry didn’t get more than two years at Hillton – and I guess we could see that he got that much – it would make a difference to him all his life. But I think, as Dan does, that if we give Jerry a start he’ll be able to find his own way after the first year. Could he get anything to do at Hillton that would bring him in some money?”

“Yes,” answered Nelson, “he could. There are lots of fellows there now who are almost putting themselves through. Look at Ted Rollins! Ted came there three years ago with three dollars in his pocket and a hand satchel. And he’s going to graduate next spring. I know for a fact that his folks have never sent him a penny; they can’t; they’re poor as church mice.”

“Well, as far as I can see,” answered Bob, “our dads are ready to give the money as soon as we can convince them that we are in earnest and that Jerry deserves it. And I vote that we go ahead. You ask your father, Dan, if he’s willing to take the money and pay it out for Jerry as it’s required. We’ll all write home this evening and tell just how the matter stands and ask to have the money sent to Mr. Speede about the fifteenth of this month. Have you got Jerry’s address, Nel?”

“Yes; and I think the best thing to do, after we’re certain that everything’s all right, is to see him on the way back and tell him all about it, just what we propose to do, and all. He said he’d probably be there by the fifteenth.”

“That’s right,” said Dan.

“But, look here,” exclaimed Tom, “if we don’t need the money until next fall, what’s the good of having it sent to your father now?”

“Because,” Bob answered, “four hundred dollars put in the savings bank or invested at four per cent means sixteen dollars a year from now. And that will be enough to pay his railway fare to Hillton and back again.”

“That’s so,” acknowledged Tom. “Bob, you’re a regular Rothschild.”

“He’s a regular Yankee!” said Dan.

“Besides,” continued Bob, unheeding of compliments, “if Dan’s father has the money we’ll know where it is, and so will Jerry. There’s nothing like being certain, you know. It beats promises.”

“Right again, O Solomon!” said Dan. “I’ll ask dad about it. I guess he will be glad to look after the Jeremiah Hinkley Fund and see that it is well and safely invested. That’s settled, then. We’ll each of us write to-night and get the thing all finished up ship-shape, eh? Now who’s going for a swim?”

There was no dissentient voice, even Barry proclaiming loudly and enthusiastically in favor of the suggestion. And a quarter of an hour later they met in front of the bath houses ready for the plunge. They found the water surprisingly warm. Barry splashed and leaped, biting at the tiny breakers and then running away from them as though for his very life. For a long while there was scarcely a breaker fortunate enough to reach the beach without first having a hole bitten in it! After some twenty minutes of diving and swimming the Four returned to the warm sand and stretched themselves out. By this time the beach had become well peopled, and from the surf came the shrieks and laughter of the women and children. Some of the larger boys had started a game of scrub baseball and were having an exciting and hilarious time. The Four sat up and looked on for a while. Then, after the ball had taken Dan in various parts of his anatomy three times, he arose disgustedly.

“Those fellows think I’m a backstop,” he said. “Maybe I am, but I don’t work for nothing. Come on, and let’s go in again.”

So back to the water they went and mingled with the throng of bathers. A group of men and older boys were arranging a swimming race out to a sloop anchored about a quarter of a mile offshore and back. One of the number, a muscular-looking fellow of about twenty-two with a Mercury’s foot on the breast of his jersey, was evidently the best performer, for the others were calling on him for handicaps.

“You?” he asked of an inquiring youth. “Oh, I’ll give you halfway to the yacht.”

“I don’t want that much,” objected the other.

“Oh, very well, don’t take it,” laughed the crack. “It isn’t compulsory, you know.”

“Is this an open race?” asked Dan smilingly.

The crack turned.

“Surely,” he answered heartily. “Come on. Want a handicap?”

“Want to give me one?”

The other looked him over carefully and pursed his lips in a doubtful smile.

“You look sort o’ good, my friend. What’s your record for the quarter?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been timed for two or three years. Give me a couple of hundred yards.”

“All right, but I don’t like your looks.”

“How about me?” asked Tom, joining them. He looked like a good-natured, pink-and-white barrel, and the crack smiled as he looked him over.

“Well, how much do you want?” he asked.

“Three hundred yards,” was the prompt reply.

“I’ll give it to you!”

“All right, put my name down,” said Tom.

The youth with the Mercury’s foot gravely wrote in the water with his finger, and the onlookers laughed. Then the contestants, of whom there were about a dozen, set off to their places. There was a good deal of good-natured argument as to the distances taken up by those receiving handicaps, but at last all were in position. Some one shouted “Go!” at the top of his lungs, and the race began. They were to swim to the sloop, pass around it, and return to the beach. Dan, who had no hope of winning, since he conceived the Mercury’s foot chap to be unusually good at the work, took things leisurely enough. But Tom, quite unawed by the crack, set off as though he meant to win the race. As a result he was the first to reach the sloop, having passed three competitors on the way out to it, and turned toward home still swimming strongly.

The sea was quite smooth, and what tide there was was setting toward shore. Some eighty or a hundred yards back from the sloop he passed the crack swimming almost under water with long deliberate strokes of his powerful arms. He smiled across at Tom in a brief moment when his head was out of water, and that smile, at once amused and confident, gave Tom a foretaste of defeat. Still, he was, perhaps, two hundred yards ahead of the other, and if he could only keep his present speed up for the rest of the distance he thought he might win. Tom wasn’t a sprinter, but in a half mile or even a quarter he was no mean antagonist. In spite of his rotundity of build he was strong of muscle and, moreover, had learned the science of making every ounce of effort tell. Presently Dan passed, fighting hard with another contestant. Then, back of them, came the tag end of the procession. But Tom was paying strict attention to business now and had no time for watching others. Only once, while still halfway between sloop and finish, did he let up for a moment and strive to see his principal rival, and then he saw enough to set him frantically at work again. For the crack had rounded the sloop and was hot on Tom’s trail and scarcely a hundred yards in the rear. Tom struck out again with long, even strokes, swimming hand over hand and pushing the water back from him with every bit of strength in his body.

Among the breakers and just beyond them the spectators were watching eagerly. Some few swam out to speed the winner over the line. Two men and a young lady in a rowboat, which had mysteriously appeared on the scene, shouted encouragingly to Tom.

“Go it, kid!” cried one of the men. “You can beat him! You’re holding him!”

“Kid, eh?” thought Tom disgustedly. “I’ll show them!”

And now, with a little more than a hundred yards to go, Tom eased his stroke a bit, for his muscles were aching terribly and his breath threatened every instant to fail him and leave him rolling helplessly about out there like a plump porpoise. And behind him, perhaps forty or fifty yards back, the crack was coming along hard and fast, still swimming with practically the same stroke he had started with.

Well, it was no disgrace to be beaten by a chap six or seven years your senior, even if you had been given three hundred yards out of nine hundred, thought Tom, in an effort to console himself. But the argument didn’t satisfy him, and he took a deep breath of the good salt air and forgot for a moment that his arms and legs felt as though they belonged to some one else. Then the breakers were forming about him in little hillocks of green water, the encouraging cries of the watchers reached him when his head came dripping above the surface, and – and, almost upon him, sounded the quick and regular splash of the pursuer! Tom closed his eyes tight and tried to forget everything save the man in the blue bathing suit, who, just where the breakers paused before the curve, stood to indicate the finish line. A long swell shot him forward for an instant. Then the returning undertow made it hard fighting.