CHAPTER XXVI
AT THE MILE
_Splash! Swish! Rattle!_
The oars dug into the water venomously, swirled through, emergeddripping and flashing, disappeared again. Brown, sinewy arms shotforward and back, bodies bent and unbent like powerful springs, thewater was thrown in little cascades of glistening pearls, and thecoxswains, open-mouthed, intense, cried unintelligible things in theuproar, and looked like vindictive little demons crouching for aspring. There was no long, rhythmic swing of the oars now; there wasnothing inspiring to the spectators in the quick, dashing movements ofthe sweeps; all seemed without system, incoherent.
Ten--eleven--twelve--thirteen--fourteen strokes! Then the savagestruggle was past, and out from the momentary chaos of uproar andturmoil and seething water the Hillton shell shot into the lead, itsbobbing 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, witha quick glance at the other boat, moved back to the full limit of theslide, his sweep swirled steadily, almost slowly, through the quieterwater, 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 crimsoneight forced the shining cedar craft away until clear water showedbetween its rudder and the knifelike bow of its rival. Hillton hadgained the first trick, and, although the game was by no means yet won,Dick’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, Keene allowed a smile to crosshis face, and on the Terrible, racing along in the wake of the speedingshells, Professor Beck and Coach Kirk glanced at each other and nodded.Across the intervening tide came, shrilly, insistent, the cry of theSt. Eustace coxswain:
“_Hit her up! Hit her up! Hit her up!_”
In response eight blue-clad bodies bent and strained in an endeavor toplace their shell beside Hillton’s, and eight blue-tipped oars flashedswiftly back and forth. St. Eustace was rowing thirty-seven. Dickshot a glance of inquiry at Keene. The latter glanced over his rightshoulder.
“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 wasabreast 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 oppositeto Dick. But there was no alteration of the latter’s stroke. For aminute 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 itwas long before Dick was certain that it was so. The Blue was rowingat thirty-three now, and very wisely husbanding her strength. Thehalf-mile was past, and the race was a quarter over.
Down at the finish crowds lined the shores and stood packed into arestless mass on the great iron bridge that spans the river a few rodsbelow the imaginary line. The scene was a bright one. Overhead thesummer sky arched warmly blue, a vast expanse of color unbroken savein the west, where a soft bank of cumulate clouds lay one upon theother like giant pillows. The river reflected the intense azure of theheavens and caught the sunlight on every ripple and wave until fromlong gazing upon it the eyes were dazzled into temporary blindness.On each side the banks were thickly wooded save that here and there asquare or quadrangle of radiant turf stretched from the margin of thestream upward and away to some quiet mansion leaf-embowered in thedistance. The western side of the river was deep-toned with shadows fora little space, and there upon the bank the trees held a promise of thetwilight in their dark foliage. Up the stream, to the right, Marshalldozed in the afternoon, a picturesque group of white buildings, studdedhere and there with clumps of green; a long, low factory buildingstood by the water and glowed warmly red in the sunlight. Across theriver and almost opposite to the village St. Eustace Academy sprawledits half-dozen edifices down the southern slope of a gentle hill, butonly the higher towers and gables showed above the big elms that stoodsentinel about it.
Along the bridge and up and down both shores by the finish crimsonflags and streamers shone side by side with the deep blue bannersof the rival school. Gay hats and bright-hued dresses pricked outthe throngs. Field-glasses now and then gave aid to eager eyes, andeverywhere was an atmosphere of impatience and excitement. Many nerveswere a-tingle there that sunny afternoon, while far up the river, likethin bright streaks upon the water, the two boats, to all appearancesside by side, sped onward toward victory or defeat. It was anybody’srace 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 thatfollowed the shells, to the officials in their speeding craft, to theoccupants of the slender cedar racing-ships themselves--to all save one.
Trevor Nesbitt, toiling over his oar with white, set face, was alonecertain that defeat was to be the harvest of the eight heroes incrimson. But although he alone was sure, it is possible that Keenewas already scenting disaster, for the coxswain was staring ahead atTrevor 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 wanderingthoughts back the next instant and bore doggedly at his oar. Yes, hecould 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 ofcollapse. He was faint and weak and dizzy; the blue sky and glisteningwater were merged in his failing sight into one strange expanse ofawful, monotonous blue that revolved behind him in mighty sweeps likea monster cyclorama. Often it was dotted with craft that trailed soft,gray vapor behind them; often the lights were suddenly turned quiteout, and the world was left in impenetrable blackness, and he closedhis eyes and was glad.
“_Four! Four! What’s the matter? Brace up, man!_”
And then he opened his aching eyes again, slowly, unwillingly, to findthe world for the moment normal; to see the muscles of Waters’s neckstraining like cords; to see a line of crimson bodies working backand forth; to wonder with alarm why he was sitting there motionlesswhen every one else was at work, and then to suddenly discover thathe, too, was going forward and back on the slide, and in time withthe other toilers. In one such moment he looked aside and saw aline of blue figures moving like automatons almost even with them.He wondered if they knew--those automatons--that they were going towin. He could tell them, but he wouldn’t; not a word. A funny littlefigure apparently sliding up and down at the stern reminded him of aridiculous image of a heathen god he had once seen in a museum. It wasvery 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 whenthey were losing the race; silence--silence like his own--would havebeen more fitting. There was a sudden jerk at his arms that for theinstant 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 afashion and worked on doggedly, as a machine might work, with neithersensation nor spirit. He had caught a crab, but he didn’t know itthen. Suddenly an almost overmastering hatred of the tossing blue lineacross the little breadth of water surged over him. They would win, thebeasts, the monsters! And the little heathen image that slid up anddown at the end would be happy! And Dick and Keene and all the otherswould be miserable and heartbroken! Heaven, how he hated thosemonsters in blue and the little red-haired heathen image!
The cox was talking again now; what was it he said? Water? Cox wantedwater; 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 wo
ndered whyand 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 greatdistance.
What was almost over? Trevor opened his eyes and drew his white,dripping forehead into a puzzled frown. Oh, yes, the race! His mindand vision cleared, and he saw things as they were; saw Keene’s eyeslooking at him despairingly, saw the cox of the St. Eustace boat slideby him and disappear; saw the one mile buoy rush astern; saw himself,huddled over his motionless oar that dragged, splashing, on thesurface. His brain was once more clear. He seized the oar handle, andtried to draw it to him. It was no use. He tried to explain it all toKeene in one long, agonized look. Then he saw the only way by which hecould aid, and summoning a semblance of strength, with a deep breath,he reached out, and with trembling, nerveless fingers unlocked his oarand dropped it aside. It was lost to sight on the instant.
The only way by which he could aid.]
“_Careful, Four!_” warned the cox.
Trevor steadied himself with a hand on the gunwale, brought hisreluctant body half erect, and then flung himself over the side. Heheard the coxswain’s voice for an instant:
“_Mind oars, Five and Seven!_”
Then the waters closed over his head.