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Captain of the Crew
There were five more verses to it, and while it lasted the seniors, led by Dick and Todd, could only cheer incessantly and stamp their feet in a hopeless endeavor to drown the song.
Meanwhile the first quarter of the race was nearly over, and Johnston and Cummings, the former leading by a scant ten yards, were spurting along the back-stretch. Then the senior runner reached the line, touched hands with the next man, and dropped from the track tired and breathless just as Cummings came up and Chalmers took his place in the race.
As Johnston crossed the line Dick slipped his watch back into his pocket. “Fifty-seven and four fifths seconds!” he bawled into Williams’s ear. “Johnston ought to have done better by three fifths.”
Williams nodded. “We’ve got the start of them, however,” he answered.
On the second lap Clark, the senior runner, increased the lead to a good fifteen yards, and from there on to the finish, Chalmers, try as he might and did, could not close the gap, and the second quarter was finished in the good time of fifty-seven and one fifth seconds. Kernan, the upper middle team captain, entered the race with set, determined face, and ere the first lap of the third quarter had been reeled off had raised the flagging hopes of his classmates by a wonderful burst of speed that put him on equal terms with the senior runner, Morris. At the third corner he secured the inside of the track, and kept it during the whole of the second, third, and fourth laps, although Morris tried hard to reach him.
The shouting from the upper middle seats was wild and continuous, and the swirling banners waved riotously over Kernan as, with head back and bare legs twinkling, he sped along, every instant now lengthening the space between him and the pursuer. And then suddenly the cheers and shouts of acclaim were changed to cries of alarm and dismay. There was the sound of a fall, and a white-clad form plunged to the floor and rolled over and over. Kernan at the third corner had tripped on the incline.
Morris, racing along but a few yards behind, leaped over the rolling body, stumbled, recovered himself after a few strides, and went on. Half a dozen fellows hurried toward Kernan, but he was on his feet again before they could reach him, and, although he was plainly bruised and sore from his fall, took up the running pluckily, amid cheers. But his task was a hopeless one. Morris had used the misadventure to good purpose, and now between him and the upper middle captain a third of a lap stretched. Kernan, with white face, tried desperately to make up the lost ground, and even succeeded in doing so to some extent, but Morris’s lead was too great, and that youth swept breathlessly over the line, nearly a quarter of a lap to the good, and, touching the impatient, outstretched fingers of Roy Taylor, sank exhausted to the floor.
Trevor, poised for a quick start, heard Taylor’s feet resounding over the first incline as Kernan, staggering by, touched his hand for a fleeting instant and toppled over. With a dash Trevor took up the running. A quarter of a lap was more than he had bargained for when he had professed his ability to beat Roy Taylor, but he was not discouraged. He knew Taylor well; knew that that youth was a fast and steady runner at quarter- and half-mile distances, but knew also that, while a spurt at the finish was quite within Taylor’s powers, a series of fast dashes had the effect of worrying and exciting him. Trevor laid his plans accordingly. He realized intuitively that he was in better condition than his rival for hard and fast work; he had run in the two-hundred-and-twenty-yard event, while Taylor had not been on the track before that evening; a fact which, in Trevor’s present good physical shape, worked to his advantage; his former race, despite his defeat, had served to put him into excellent condition for this one. He ran easily, maintaining the distance between Taylor and himself, and at the commencement of the second of the six laps constituting the last quarter of the race he was still a quarter of a lap behind.
“That’s good work, Nesbitt,” cried Kernan, who, sprawled out on a mattress, was at last beginning to find his breath once more. The band was almost vainly striving to make its brazen notes heard above the shouting of the students, while pennants of class colors writhed serpent-like in the air, and seniors and upper middle classmen hurled defiant cheers at each other across the intervening space. The lower middle boys and the juniors cheered indiscriminately, although there was a tendency among the latter class to uphold the seniors. Dick, Williams, Todd, and their companions leaned over the railing and watched the contest excitedly. Trevor and Taylor had begun the second lap, the former with eyes intent upon the youth ahead, the latter running with a great show of style, and with an easy and confident smile upon his face.
“Taylor runs just as he does everything,” grumbled Todd, “with one eye on the gallery.”
“He does like to show off,” assented Williams. “Hello!”
A roar went up from floor and balcony, and Roy Taylor, just mounting the second incline, turned his head to see Trevor coming up on him like a whirlwind. Instantly he leaped away, and the seniors, for a moment dismayed, gave voice to their relief and approval. Trevor settled down into his former pace, well satisfied, for by that unexpected spurt he had taken off nearly a half of the distance that had separated him from his opponent. Taylor, as soon as he saw the danger over, settled back into his former even but not extraordinary pace, and finished the second lap running well within himself. The third lap began with more encouraging prospects for the upper middle class.
CHAPTER VII
TREVOR’S VICTORY
“I don’t like Taylor’s letting ’Is ’Ighness creep up on him that way,” objected Williams. “He was napping; and he’ll need every foot he can get before the race is over.”
“Nesbitt’s doing some head-work,” answered Dick, with a note of admiration in his voice, “and I wouldn’t be surprised to see him get the best of Taylor yet. If he can keep up – Look there!”
Trevor was at his former tactics. Just as Taylor reached the second corner the upper middle boy fairly threw himself forward, and ere the senior runner had taken alarm had closed up with him until a mere six yards intervened. The upper middle fellows howled with delight, and the seniors, striving to hide their dismay, cheered lustily. Taylor’s face wore a scowl as he increased his speed and strove to regain his lost lead.
But Trevor held what he had taken, took his pace from Taylor, and with never a look to right or left, kept doggedly at the other’s heels. The fourth lap started in a veritable pandemonium. Taylor was now but a scant ten yards in the lead, and those who saw Trevor’s calm, intent gaze fastened upon the other boy’s shoulders realized that, barring a mishap such as had fallen to the lot of Kernan, he would, if he did not actually win, at least finish so close behind Taylor as to make the race one of the closest ever witnessed at Hillton, indoors or out.
This time Taylor was on the lookout, and when Trevor spurted was ready for him and so held his advantage. Trevor was well satisfied, for he had no wish to pass Taylor at that time, but only to tire and worry him. His spurt lasted until the line was again crossed. And now Taylor took the initiative and increased his speed, for, as Trevor had expected, the short spurts had made him nervous. But shake off his pursuer he could not, and with the lap half run but five yards lay between the two.
“He’s a silly chump!” shouted Todd angrily, glaring across at the speeding senior runner. “Why doesn’t he keep that for the last lap; can’t he see he’s begun to spurt too early?”
“I have an idea that Trevor Nesbitt’s got him scared,” answered Dick.
“You just bet he has; he’s worried to death!” This from Williams, who was scowling blackly. “He deserves to lose it.”
“And Nesbitt deserves to win it,” said Dick.
“Humph! You seem to have changed your tune!”
Dick accepted the gibe good-naturedly.
“I have; I think Nesbitt’s the headiest youngster I’ve seen in a long while, and as for Taylor – ”
The bell clanged loudly, announcing the beginning of the last lap, and every fellow in the balcony was on his feet in the instant. As he took the first turn Taylor glanced hurriedly back and met the unwavering and, as it seemed to him, relentless stare of Trevor, and putting every effort into his work again increased his pace. Everybody was shouting now, but as the two runners passed under the seniors’ balcony one voice sounded more loudly than all:
“Good work, Nesbitt!”
And Trevor heard it and recognized Dick Hope’s voice, and for an instant a smile crossed his face. Then the second incline was under his feet, and he had to use care lest he trip. But he got safely over, and now the time for his final effort had come. Into the back-stretch he sped, and the watchers held their breath, for foot by foot the lost ground was being eaten up by his flying feet. Then a burst of applause shook the rafters and Taylor, running despairingly, heard the other lad’s feet at his side, strove to goad his wearied limbs into faster strides, and found with dismay at his heart that he had reached his limit.
At the third corner Trevor with a final effort leaped into the lead, hugging the inside of the track. At the last corner he was a yard to the good, and from there down to the finish line, where Kernan and Chalmers and Johnston leaped frantically about the floor, he held his vantage, and so toppled over into eager, outspread arms, aching, breathless, and weak, but winner of the race. And as he stretched himself gratefully on the mattress he heard the timekeeper announce:
“Last quarter, fifty-seven and one fifth; the mile, three forty-eight and two fifths.”
When Trevor reached his room he found Dick seated in front of the fire, a Latin text-book face downward in his lap, his arms over his head, and his eyes closed. The fire was almost out, and the room was chilly. Trevor as silently as possible placed another log in the grate, and, disappearing into the bedroom, came out again with his dressing-gown, which after a moment’s hesitation he spread over the sleeper’s knees. Then he doffed his coat and cap, and standing by the fireplace held his chilled hands to the blaze and looked down at Dick. And as he looked he fell to wondering why it was that he and his roommate got on together so badly. It was not his fault, he told himself; he had tried every way he knew to thaw Dick’s indifference. It was now ten days since the winter term had commenced, and the two boys were as much strangers to each other as they had been after Trevor’s burst of confidence on their first night together. Trevor often regretted that confidence; he sometimes thought that he had bored Dick with his family photographs and history, and remembered with a flush that his roommate had never responded in like manner. Of course, his cheekiness on the stage-coach during that unfortunate drive had been the primary cause of Dick’s dislike; and Trevor couldn’t blame the latter for taking umbrage; only – well, he had apologized and explained, and it seemed that the other ought to be willing to forgive. It was not that Dick was nasty; he treated Trevor with good-humored politeness; fact was, Trevor reflected dubiously, Dick was altogether too polite; his politeness was of the sort which he imagined a judge might display toward the prisoner in the dock. He wished that Dick would throw a boot at him so that they could have it out and come to an understanding.
Dick moved restlessly and opened his eyes. His gaze encountered Trevor’s and he smiled sleepily and stretched himself. Then he sat up and looked about him perplexedly.
“Well, if I didn’t go to sleep!” he said. “What time is it?”
Trevor glanced at the battered alarm-clock on the table. “Ten minutes of twelve,” he answered.
Dick yawned and suddenly spied the dressing-gown. He pulled it toward him and looked at it in astonishment.
“What – ?”
Trevor flushed as he answered hurriedly: “It was so bally chilly here when I came in, you know; and I thought that maybe you’d catch cold. So I threw that over you. Just pitch it on the floor there.”
“Thanks,” said Dick. “I expect it was chilly. I was going to put another stick on the fire, and while I was thinking about it I suppose I fell asleep. It’s pretty late, isn’t it? Well, to-morrow’s Sunday.”
He arose and the two began to prepare for bed. There was something in Dick’s tone and manner quite friendly, and Trevor was puzzled.
“That was a great race you ran, Nesbitt,” said the former presently.
“The last one wasn’t so bad,” answered Trevor.
“Bad! It was fine!” replied Dick warmly. “It was the best bit of head-work I’ve seen on a track. And I was glad you beat Taylor, even if it did mean the loss of the race to the seniors. But I rather think I liked the first race better.”
“Well, of course you would,” said Trevor. “Earle’s a friend of yours; and he ran a good race. I – I didn’t much mind his beating; he seems like a jolly good sort of a chap.”
“He is a good chap; and I know it pleased him like anything to win that race, because his father and mother were there, you see.”
“Yes.”
“It would have been too bad if he’d lost it, wouldn’t it?” Dick was smiling rather queerly, Trevor thought.
“I suppose it would,” he answered.
“Yes; and so you gave it to him.”
“What – what do you mean?” stammered Trevor, very red and uncomfortable.
“Why,” laughed Dick, “just what I said. You’re not going to deny that you slowed down and let him win, are you?”
For a long moment Trevor was very busy with his nightshirt, which suddenly exhibited an unwonted dislike to going on. Then:
“I fancy there’s no use denying it,” he muttered from the folds of the mutinous garment.
“Not a bit,” answered Dick smilingly.
“You see,” explained Trevor presently, “Earle had set his heart on winning, and it didn’t mean anything to me, you know; I hadn’t any relatives looking on; and then his mother was so – so jolly nice about it, and his father, and – and all, that I just thought he might as well win. Doesn’t it – don’t you think it was all right?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly fair, you know; but I guess it was something even better,” answered Dick.
“Do you think Earle suspected anything?”
“I’m sure I don’t know; I didn’t see him. But Williams and Todd, who were sitting with me, thought it was a straight race, and so I guess Earle thought so too.”
Later, when the lights were out and the two were in bed, Dick broke the silence.
“Are you awake, Nesbitt?”
“Yes,” came the reply from across the darkness.
“I’ve been thinking I’d take a good, long walk to-morrow after church; up the river toward Port Wallace. Like to go along?”
“I should say so!” was the hearty reply.
“All right, I wish you would. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” answered Trevor. Then, as he burrowed his head contentedly in the pillow, he thought: “I fancy it’s all right now, and he won’t have to throw that boot after all!”
CHAPTER VIII
CANDIDATES FOR THE CREW
Roy Taylor’s work was apparent when on the following Tuesday afternoon the candidates for the crew reported in the rowing-room at the gymnasium. Dick counted the assemblage over twice, but could make no more than nineteen, a sorry showing compared with last year; twenty men – including himself – from which to select two eights! But he was careful to let none of the discontent that he felt appear on his face.
“There aren’t very many of us, fellows,” he said cheerfully, “but I guess we all mean business, and that’s a good deal.”
Professor Beck entered at that moment, paused to remove his rubbers, and then surveyed the candidates through his glasses.
“Well, boys, are you all here?” His gaze traveled around the room. “But I see that you’re not. Four o’clock was the hour, wasn’t it, Hope?”
“Yes, sir; and it’s now a quarter after. I guess they’re all here that are coming.”
“Bless me, this won’t do! How many – four, six, ten, sixteen, twenty? Twenty men for two crews. What do you fellows think we’re going to race with this year, pair-oars?”
The candidates, perched about the room on window-sills and radiators, smiled, but were careful not to laugh aloud, since it was evident that the professor was thoroughly vexed.
“Hope, you’ll have to go among the fellows and work up some interest in the crews; and Taylor, you’re an old-crew man, you do the same; and the rest of you, too, I want you all to talk rowing, and next week I want as many more candidates on hand. This is perfect poppycock! Twenty men, indeed! Well, that’s all I’ve got to say to you; now listen to Captain Hope.” And the professor withdrew to a window, where he polished his glasses vigorously and made a number of the new candidates very nervous by the critical way in which he studied them.
“I’d like every fellow’s name before he leaves,” said Dick. “And I want to see every one here promptly at three o’clock next Wednesday afternoon. Meanwhile those of you who haven’t been examined for crew work will please attend to it. Have you set any special days, professor?”
“Yes, to-morrow and Saturday afternoons,” answered the latter, “between four and six.”
“You new fellows must understand that permits to take part in baseball and track games won’t answer for rowing, so please see Mr. Beck to-morrow if possible; if not, on Saturday. I hope that you’ll do as Mr. Beck has requested; I mean try and work up more of an interest in rowing; every fellow ought to be able to bring at least one other fellow with him next Wednesday. We’ve got a hard proposition before us this spring, but it’s by no means a hopeless one. We’ve beaten St. Eustace on the river before – often – and we can do it again; but it means lots of hard work, and any fellow that’s afraid of work might as well pull out now, for we can’t have any shirking. Last spring there was a good deal of trouble at the first of the season because the candidates – some of them, that is – tried to get out of preliminary work. That won’t do; the work on the weights at the beginning of the season is really important, and it’s got to be faced; and I tell you now that any fellow who won’t go through with it honestly isn’t wanted. But I don’t believe there are any of that sort here to-day, and I hope there won’t be next Wednesday. I guess that’s all I have to say. I hope every fellow will bear in mind the fact that in trying for the crew he is not only bettering his own physical condition and health, but standing by the school; he can’t do more for the honor of Hillton than by honest, sincere work on the crews. And it doesn’t make any difference whether he makes the varsity boat or the second; in either case he’s doing his best, doing his duty; for the fellow that rows with the second eight is helping to turn out a winning crew almost as much as though he rowed in the race with St. Eustace. I hope we’ll all pull together this year and that there won’t be any discord. I’ll do my level best, and I’ll trust you fellows to do yours; and if that is so I defy St. Eustace or any one else to beat us!”
The audience showed its approval of these sentiments by clapping, Taylor perhaps the loudest of all, and Dick, somewhat red in the face from his effort, smiled, and drawing a tablet from his pocket, proceeded to take the fellows’ names. Professor Beck settled his glasses again on his nose and approached a youth who during the proceedings had been perched comfortably on the top of a radiator, but who, having secured the entry of his name in the list of candidates, was now examining with interest the working of one of the rowing machines.
“You’re Nesbitt, aren’t you?” asked the professor.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever rowed any, Nesbitt?”
“Yes, as a youngster” – here the professor smiled slightly – “I used to paddle a bit; that was in England.”
“Ah, yes; I recollect you now. You won the last quarter in the relay race the other night; that was well run, my boy, although you’re rather too heavy for fast work. How was your wind when you finished?”
“It was rather short; the spurts tuckered me quite a bit.”
“Yes, I imagine you could get rid of eight pounds or so to good advantage. You’d better come and see me to-morrow and take your examination, so that I can put you to work on the weights as soon as possible. I’m glad you’re going to try for the crew; you look as though you were made for a rowing man.” He nodded smilingly and moved away, and Trevor, assuming an appearance of unconcern, while secretly much flattered by the professor’s attention, joined Dick, who had finished his list and was conversing with Roy Taylor and Crocker, a large, heavily built youth who had rowed at Number 6 in the second eight the preceding year. Taylor was speaking when Trevor approached.
“Why, last winter over forty fellows turned out, and now look at ’em! Great Scott! There’s no use trying to get a decent crew out of twenty men!”
Dick frowned, and Crocker offered a suggestion:
“Look here, the Hilltonian comes out in less than a week; what’s the matter with getting Singer to write a ripping editorial about the necessity for more candidates, and – and ‘asking the support of the entire student body,’ and all that sort of stuff? Maybe there’s still time; I’m blamed if I know when the paper goes to press.”
“That’s a good idea, Bob,” answered Dick. “And I’ll see Singer this evening. And meanwhile you fellows do what you can; you ought to be able to drum up lots of fellows, Taylor; you know plenty of them, and what you say has weight.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can, Hope, of course, but there doesn’t seem to be the usual interest in rowing this year.”
“I know; we’ve got to awaken interest. I’ll see you the last of the week and we’ll have another council of war. Going back to the room, Nesbitt?”
On their way across the Yard, which between the walks was a waste of heavily crusted snow upon which the afternoon sunlight flashed dazzlingly, the two boys were silent – Dick with the little creases in his forehead very deep, and Trevor kicking at the ice in a manner which suggested annoyance. When the dormitory was reached Trevor stopped and let go savagely at a small cake of ice, which, as it was securely frozen to the granite step, only resulted in an unpleasant jar to his foot. But the jar seemed to loosen his tongue, for he turned quickly to Dick as they passed into the building, and asked explosively:
“Is that chap Taylor all right?”
“Why? Have you heard anything?” asked Dick.
“No; only – only he looks as though he didn’t much like you, Hope; and then he talks so sick!”
“Sick?”
“Yes; I mean he talks as though he didn’t want the crew to be a success; haven’t you noticed it?”
“The trouble with Roy Taylor,” answered the other gravely as they passed into Number 16, “is that he hates to have any one else win out at anything. He has a mighty high opinion of Roy Taylor, you know. He wanted to be captain, and I don’t think he has ever forgiven me for beating him; but I guess he’ll come round in the end and do his best for the crew.”
Trevor didn’t look impressed with this last remark. He studied the flames awhile thoughtfully as he held his hands up to the warmth. Then:
“I see. I don’t fancy, then, he loves me much after the way I beat him Saturday night, eh?”
“I guess not,” answered Dick laughingly. “I ‘fancy’ we’re both down in his black book.”
“Yes.” Trevor turned away and rummaged among the débris of the study table. “Seen my algebra? Never mind, here it is.” He drew a chair up before the fireplace and opened the book, only to lay it down again and deliver himself forcibly of the following declaration:
“Taylor may be as waxy with me as he likes, Hope, but he’s got to understand that if he interferes with this crew business there’s a plaguy lot of trouble ahead for him!”
“And for me, too,” thought Dick, as he gazed despondently at the slim list of candidates.
CHAPTER IX
THE HOCKEY MATCH
The balance of the week was a busy time for Dick. His usual hour of study before supper was dropped, and he spent that time with every other spare moment in trying to recruit candidates for the crews. He buttonholed boys in classroom and even in chapel, pursued them across the frozen Yard, waylaid them in the corridors, and bearded them in their dens; and all with small success. Those who displayed a willingness to go in for rowing were almost invariably younger fellows whose ambitions were better developed than their muscles. Those whom Dick longed to secure had an excuse for every inducement he could set forth. The seniors pleaded lessons; the upper middle fellows were going in for baseball, cricket, anything save rowing; the lower class boys were unpromising to a degree; and when Saturday came he found that out of a possible ten recruits the most promising was a long-legged, pasty-faced youth who had been dropped from the hockey team and whose desperate desire to distinguish himself in some manner was alone accountable for his complaisance.
