Captain of the Crew

A quarter of an hour passed; a half. It was too dark to recognize anything save the lines of track, which had left the river some distance to the right. Suddenly a slight turn brought into view a cluster of lights, white and green.

“A station!” cried Trevor.

The two boys increased their gait and five minutes later passed a freight train on a siding, and found a little box of a station, ablaze with light, and oh, how warm! Around a great whitewashed stove in the middle of the waiting-room sat three men. Two had woolen caps on; the third was bareheaded, and him the boys rightly judged to be the station-master. Their story was quickly told, and a moment later the key at the telegraph desk was ticking off messages to stations up the line.

“You must have got thrown out at about Whitely Mills,” said one of the men at the stove. “The boat would have a clear track from there up to – I say, Gus,” he called suddenly to the man at the instrument, “they were cutting ice to-day at the houses just this side of Lorraine. That would be a bad part of the river to get onto in the dark. You’d better tell the fellow at Lorraine to send some one down there with a lantern; what d’ye think, Joe?”

The third man nodded his head. “Bad place; I noticed they were cutting pretty well out toward the channel.”

“All right,” said the station-master. And the instrument ticked on. Carl and Trevor sat by the stove and held their feet and hands to the grateful warmth. They were too tired, too dejected to talk. The engineer and conductor of the waiting freight eyed them curiously but kindly. Finally the latter asked:

“How you boys going to get to Hillton?”

“Walk,” answered Carl with a faint smile. “How far is it from here?”

“Twelve miles.”

The two lads looked at each other and groaned.

“Well, I don’t care so much, now that I’ve got thawed out a bit,” said Trevor. “How far do you think we have walked?”

“I guess it’s about three miles from Whitely here.”

“At that rate,” commented Carl dismally, “it will take us two hours longer to reach Hillton. And” – he glanced at the station clock – “it’s now twenty after six; say half-past eight.” The engineer and conductor were exchanging glances of amusement. Finally the conductor spoke again:

“Well, I guess we can fix it so as you won’t have to walk. The through freight will be here in seven minutes, and I guess they’ll give you a lift. If they don’t you can ride down with us, although we won’t get there much before seven. We’re slow but sure, we are; twenty-eight cars of coal and a caboose.”

The boys brightened and thanked the railroad men fervently. And then the station-master left the telegraph instrument and came out into the waiting-room.

“It’s all right. I’ve put ’em on as far north as Yorkvale, and if he’s still on the yacht they’ll find him, I guess.” He turned to the conductor and added in lower tones: “Gregson, at Lorraine, says he’ll see that a party goes down right away; says he doesn’t believe a yacht could pass there to-night, as the river hasn’t had time to freeze much since they quit cutting at about four.”

The conductor nodded. From far off came the long, shrill blast of a locomotive whistle, and the men drew on their coats, and presently, followed closely by Carl and Trevor, left the station.

There was a flood of yellow light on the rails to the north, and the next instant the fast freight thundered by them for half its length, the brake shoes rasping deafeningly against the wheels. The matter was soon arranged, and Trevor and Carl found themselves sitting in the strange little caboose about a tiny stove that was almost red-hot, and telling their story to two of the train crew. And then, almost before they knew that they had got well started, the train slowed down, and they were tumbled out into the snow at the Hillton crossing, and, shouting their thanks after the scurrying car as it romped off again into the darkness, they took up the last stage of their journey. But now, aside from the anxiety they felt as to Dick’s fate, they were fairly comfortable and contented; and the prospect of supper – for it seemed to them that never before in the history of the world had two persons been so hungry – allowed them to view their coming interview with the principal with something approaching equanimity.

Half an hour later Professor Beck was speeding northward in a buggy behind the fastest horse in Watson’s stables, and Trevor and Carl, subdued and anxious, were eating as though their lives depended upon it in the deserted dining-hall. And afterward Trevor donned his ridiculous red dressing-gown and sat in front of the study fire for hours, listening anxiously for sounds on the stairs that would tell of Dick’s safe return. Sleep, despite his best endeavors, besieged him constantly, and now and then he dropped off for a minute or two, only to reawake with a start and rub his smarting eyes confusedly.

“I wish Muggins was here,” he sighed. “It wouldn’t be so lonely.” Then the clock gathered its hands together at the figure XII, and Trevor crept sleepily but protestingly to bed and dropped into heavy slumber the moment his head touched the pillow.

Once – it seemed as though it must be almost daylight – there were disturbing sounds in the bedroom, and Trevor turned over with a groan, and, even while he was asking himself what the noise meant, went off to slumber again. When he awoke in the morning, and the happenings of the previous evening rushed back to memory, he sat up suddenly with a wild, anxious look toward the neighboring bed, and a deep sigh of relief and joy escaped him. For Dick’s tumbled head lay on the pillow, and Dick’s hearty snores made music in his ears.

In the afternoon the crew of The Sleet, including Stewart, were gathered about the hearth in Number 16, listening breathlessly to Dick’s narrative.

“My, but that water was cold!” Dick was saying. “And deep, too. It seemed as though I never would stop going down. You see, I was so surprised that I just let myself go, and never thought of struggling for a long while. When I did, it took me so long to reach the surface again that I hadn’t any breath left in my body. I got hold of the edge of the ice and tried to pull myself out, but it was only about half an inch thick, I guess, and broke right off every time, and down I’d go again, over my head, maybe. Finally I stopped that and managed to keep my head out. It was as dark as Egypt by that time, but after awhile I caught sight of The Sleet just a few yards away, sticking up into the air like a big triangle. It was on its side with one runner ’way under the water. Farther off I could make out three black hulks of things that I concluded were ice-houses, and Professor Beck says that’s what they were. Of course, when I saw the yacht I knew that I was all right; all I had to do was to keep on breaking the ice until I reached it. But I was so plaguy cold, and my teeth were chattering so, and my clothing was so heavy that it wasn’t very easy after all. But after a while I found something that wasn’t ice; it was the sail, and it was lying flat over the water and broken ice. It sagged down with me after I managed to get onto it, but held me all right, and I crawled along it until I reached the – the – what do you call it, Carl?”

“Boom?”

“Yes, boom. And then I got onto the mast and leaned against a plank – the cross-plank, it was – and I was all right, except that I was almost dead with the cold, and was afraid I’d freeze to death. So I kept stamping around and throwing my arms about as well as I could without falling into the water again, and after a while I got comparatively warmed up. Then – I suppose I’d been there fifteen or twenty minutes – I began to wonder if I couldn’t get off. You see, I argued that the yacht would have broken through just as soon as the ice became thin, and so it seemed to me that there must be thick ice just back of the boat. But, try as I might, I couldn’t for the life of me decide which was the back of the silly thing and which the front. And I was afraid that I’d go plumping into that beastly cold water again. But after a while I got up my pluck and went to feeling about, letting myself down here and there, and crawling around. But every time I’d try to stand on the ice, down I’d go; and so finally I gave it up. But the climbing about kept me warmed up after a fashion; I dare say I was as warm as a fellow could be with his clothes sopping wet where they weren’t frozen stiff. So I crawled back to the mast again and set out to holler.

“I wish you could have heard me! I yelled in forty different styles. And when I couldn’t think of anything else I cheered; cheered for Hilton, cheered for The Sleet, cheered for the ice-houses, and incidentally, my young friends, cheered myself. And then my voice and my breath gave out, and I stood still a while and kicked my frozen feet against the plank and thought about fires and cups of hot coffee and things to eat until I was nearly crazy. And then I saw some lights flickering away off in the distance to the right of the ice-houses, and began yelling again. And that’s about all. There were three fellows with lanterns and they got a piece of plank or something and took me off. And what do you think?” he asked disgustedly. “There was thick ice, half a foot thick, within three feet of me all the time!

“A man who said he was the station-master took me up to a house, and they gave me some blankets and things and dried my clothes and poured hot coffee and brandy stuff into me, and I went to sleep for a while in front of a big round stove; and was never so happy in my life. Afterward I ate some supper; my, fellows, but it was good! And then, in about an hour or so, Professor Beck popped in and said that he didn’t want to hurry me, but that if I’d quite finished bathing we’d go home. The station fellow – I believe I’ve forgotten his name – said he’d attend to having the ice-yacht hauled out for us, and would look after it until we sent for it.”

“Do you think it’s much broken up?” asked Carl.

“I don’t know,” replied Dick vigorously, “and what’s more, I don’t care a continental!”

The Sleet, to anticipate a trifle, went back to its former owner at a loss to the shareholders of six dollars, and a faculty edict was solemnly published prohibiting forevermore at Hillton Academy the fascinating and exhilarating sport of ice-yachting.

CHAPTER XV

IN THE ROWING-ROOM

February came in at Hillton as though resolved to make up for its brevity by strict attention to business, and dealt out snow and sleet with a lavish hand, and bullied the elements, which had begun to show signs of relenting, into a state of sullen ferocity. For days together the sun never so much as showed its face through the leaden clouds, and the winds howled spitefully across the yard. It was the sort of weather which, as Trevor explained one afternoon, while staring dolorously out the window, fairly drove a fellow to study. The river retained its armor of glaring ice, and the white-winged yachts passed and repassed continuously, without, however, eliciting anything but the most grudging admiration from Dick. The hockey team went to Marshall and triumphed decisively over St. Eustace, who, minus Jenkins and the freckle-faced Billings, was shorn of her strength. And, as though that was not glory enough, Hillton and her old rival met in debate in the town hall at Hillton and the former won a fourth consecutive victory by proving to the satisfaction of three staid and reverend judges that the development of the arid West would prove of more benefit to the United States than the construction of an isthmian canal.

Work in the cage had begun for the baseball candidates, and Carl Gray was very busy. Ambitious youths who were striving for places on the track team held forth three afternoons each week in the gymnasium, and a spirit of athletism seized upon the school world. The first squad of crew candidates had graduated from weights to machines, while the second squad, swelled by eight recruits since its first assembling, were still in the throes of preliminary training. Professor Beck had “hooked” the promising upper middle boy of whom he had spoken to Dick; several candidates, inclusive of the unfortunate Perry, had been dropped, and Coach Kirk had paid his first visit to the academy, had looked the fellows over undemonstratively, and had gone his way again. To-day, a bleak and dismal Thursday, the machines were occupied, and Professor Beck was watching the performances of the eight youths with dissatisfied mien.

“Lengthen out, Waters, lengthen out; that’s better. Crocker, your recovery’s too slow; put some ginger into it; this is no place to go to sleep. Four, put more drive into your legs; that’s the way. Stroke, hit it up a little!” And Dick, in obedience to the command, quickened his stroke. When the rest had gone Beck turned to Dick: “Hope, what’s the matter with Taylor? This is the third day he’s been absent. We can’t have that. You must speak to him, and tell him that he’ll have to attend to business better.”

And Dick promised and went off laggingly to the task. He found Taylor in his room in a boarding-house in the village.

He was stretched out on a couch reading when Dick entered in response to a loud “Come in.” He appeared surprised when he looked up and saw who his visitor was, but rose to the demands of the occasion.

“Hello, Hope, glad to see you. Sit down. Been ice-yachting lately?”

Dick replied gravely that he had not, and then heroically plunged into the subject of his visit.

“Look here, Taylor,” he said, “I wish you’d try to be a little more careful about training. You missed work again to-day. This makes the third time it’s happened in the last two weeks. Can’t you do better than that?”

Taylor frowned and yawned lazily before he answered.

“I’m glad you’ve mentioned it, Hope. The fact is, I’ve been thinking about chucking it. I can’t see how I’m going to go in for rowing this year and hope to pass spring exams. That’s what the trouble is, old chap. I’ve been digging hard all afternoon” – adding, as he saw Dick glance at the magazine in his hands – “just this minute laid my Greek aside and took up this to – er – ease my brain.” He stopped and smiled amiably across.

Dick frowned.

“That’s nonsense, Taylor, and you know it,” he said in low tones.

“Nonsense!” Taylor raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes, nonsense. You can’t convince me that you’re so stupid as not to be able to train for the crew and get through with your studies. There are lots of fellows doing it; always have done it. I’m doing it myself; Crocker’s doing it; so’s Milton and Arnold and lots of fellows; they’re all in in our class; I haven’t heard them say that they were afraid of not passing.”

“Well, that may be,” replied Taylor, “but it’s a question that every fellow must decide for himself. I honestly don’t think I ought to keep up crew work; I’ve got my folks to think of, you know; they didn’t send me to school here to row or play football or anything of that sort – that is, not that alone. I’ve got to pass, and to do that I’ve got to study. If I’m not as smart and clever as some of the rest of you” – here there was a trace of a sneer – “I can’t help it; a fellow’s what he is, you know.”

Dick experienced an intense desire to kick his host and tell him what he thought of him. But instead he smiled conciliatingly.

“I think you’re underestimating your ability, Taylor. Like a good fellow, get those notions out of your head and come back to work; do your best for the crew; it’s your last year. You know what shape we’re in; we haven’t anywhere near the material we ought to have. Confound it, Taylor, you’ve got to stay in the boat! You can’t do anything else, when you stop and think how your leaving will weaken us!”

A smile of pleased vanity crossed the other boy’s face. Then he shook his head resolutely.

“No, I can’t do it, Hope. Oh, I’ve thought it all over, and I know what it means to the crew; but you’ll soon find another fellow at seven, and never miss me. Of course, I’m awful sorry if it’s going to make trouble for you, Hope; you know that. But it’s my duty, and I guess we’d better consider the matter settled. I” – he smiled apologetically – “I’ll tender my resignation, Hope.”

Dick arose, striving to conceal the indignation he felt.

“I sha’n’t accept it to-day, Taylor,” he answered gravely. “If you feel the same way about it to-morrow evening, after thinking it over, send me word and then I’ll scratch your name off the list. Only I hope you’ll see your way to stay in the boat.”

On the way back to the academy Dick gave vent to his feelings, creasing his brows savagely, kicking right and left at inoffending lumps of ice, and even muttering half aloud as he strode along.

“Of all mean, contemptible tricks,” he thought angrily, “that’s the worst! Just to spite me he’s willing to see the school defeated! By Jove, I have half a mind to put the whole affair before Beck and Wheeler; the whole school ought to know it. If they did, Taylor’s life wouldn’t be worth living! But, no, I can’t shove it off on any one else; I’m captain; I’ve got to fight it out alone; and I will! And I’ll turn out a decent crew in spite of Taylor, in spite of anything he can do, by Jove! I’ll – ”

“’Ware the dog!” cried a voice, and he looked up quickly to see Trevor grinning at him and to find Muggins leaping about him.

“Hello, Muggs!” he cried, vainly striving to bestow a pat upon that unquiet animal. “Say, Trevor, hasn’t he grown? He’s twice the size he was when you got him!”

“It’s a way puppies have.”

“You don’t say so? Who’d have thunk it! Beastly cold, isn’t it? Where you going?”

“You can ask a lot of questions for a small kid,” laughed Trevor. “I’m going to take Muggins back to his soap-box, and then I’m going home. We’ve been out for a nice long walk, haven’t we, Muggins? Where’ve you been?”

“Paying an afternoon call on Roy Taylor. Come on, I’ll walk back to the stable with you.”

“All right; come ahead, Muggins. Now, behave yourself nicely before your Uncle Richard! Hope Taylor was glad to see you?”

“I guess he was. Why?”

“Oh, you needn’t be so bally secretive about it,” grinned Trevor. “Don’t you think I know that you went to call him down for not showing up to-day?”

“You seem to know a good deal,” answered Dick, noncommittingly.

Trevor nodded vigorously.

“I do; I’m what you fellows call ‘right smart.’ I hope you gave it to him straight from the shoulder.” And after a pause, in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, “I don’t like that chap a little bit!”

“I gathered as much,” laughed Dick. “Beck was pretty huffy at him this afternoon.”

“I don’t wonder. Just fancy, the beggar doesn’t show up half the time, while the rest of us poor dubs sit there and slave at those bally machines until our arms are pulled out of shape. I know mine are at least six inches longer than they were a month ago.”

“How did you get on to-day?”

“Fairly well, I fancy. Only it takes a long time to get used to your style of rowing. You see, it’s rather different from ours.”

“Is it? Perhaps you’re not aware that we are supposed to row the English stroke?” Trevor raised his eyebrows.

“The dickens you say? Well, I can’t see much resemblance, Dick. Why, you haven’t any body-swing; you make a chap’s legs do it all!”

“Do we? Well, you must mention that to Kirk next Saturday; I dare say he’ll be glad to hear about it.”

“Rot; I’m not finding fault; any old stroke will do me; I’m just saying that there’s a difference between the stroke that Beck and you teach and the English stroke that I’ve seen. Maybe yours is the better of the two. Here we are, Muggins. Now, be a good doggy until I see you again; and don’t pull any more blankets off the table, or Jim will lay it onto you with a strap.”

Muggins had by this time grown inured to partings, and so only stood by the office stove and watched them disappear with head on one side and a sort of “Must you go?” expression in his eyes.

“When do we get onto the river?” asked Trevor presently as they retraced their steps down the village street in the teeth of a northwest gale.

“Depends; sometimes in early March, sometimes not until about April. You see, the ice makes it awkward. Kirk has got it into his head that we’ll get out early this spring; I don’t know whether he’s made any arrangements with the weather man.”

“He’s older than I expected. Last year I was a bit surprised to see what a staid and venerable party he was.”

“Well, he’s nearly forty, though I don’t suppose that’s exactly old – when you get used to it; they get even older, I’m told. But Kirk knows a good deal about rowing, and he has turned out some dandy crews, both here and at Harwell. When he was at school here he was captain of the eight in his upper middle and senior years, and at college he rowed four in his class crew the first year, went into the varsity boat the next, and stayed there until he graduated; he was captain in his senior year. Then he coached them for a while. This is his fourth year with us, and we’ve beaten St. Eustace twice and been beaten once in that time; and we’ll beat her again next June.”

“I hope so,” said Trevor, “only I can’t see why every one seems so half-hearted about it. I don’t mean you or Beck,” he explained hurriedly, “but the fellows as a rule; they don’t seem to care much about it.”

“I know; but part of that is just – just put on, assumed, Trevor; when the crews get on the water it will be different. But, just the same,” he owned sorrowfully, “there is an unusual lack of rowing spirit among the fellows this year. I dare say it will happen that way now and then. Only I wish it hadn’t happened this year,” he added ruefully.

“So do I, for your sake, old chap,” answered Trevor heartily as they climbed to their room.

The head coach put in his appearance on the following Saturday afternoon, despite a heavy snow-storm that well-nigh blocked the roads, and by his brisk, businesslike manners put new life into the first squad, for the moment at least. Malcolm Kirk was a man of medium height, approaching forty years of age, with a good but not exaggerated breadth of chest and shoulder, and very serious and steady black eyes. His manner was usually contained and rather grave, and he possessed a widely noted habit of keeping his own mind and every one else’s fixed firmly for the time on the matter in hand, to the exclusion of all else.

As an example of this, it was told of him that once, while coaching a college crew in a barge, he was lecturing a man in the waist on the subject of dropping the hands, when the barge struck a snag which ripped a hole in her. “You don’t get your oar out of the water clean, Four,” remonstrated the coach. “Drop the forearm as well as the hands.” The barge was by this time awash. “We’ve ripped a hole in the skin, sir,” called the coxswain. “Eh? Very careless,” answered the coach from the bow of the launch. “There, Four, that’s better. Now make your wrist turn sharper. Keep it up, keep it up; you’re doing better!” And the eight rowed the half-filled barge an eighth of a mile before Kirk was quite satisfied with the unfortunate Four’s work, and allowed the men to come out.

To-day the first thing he noted was the presence of a new fellow at seven.

“Where’s that man Taylor?” he asked of Dick.

“He’s stopped training, Mr. Kirk; says he can’t keep up with his studies.” Kirk stared.

“Nonsense, we must have him back; tell him so, Hope. Now, Six, that won’t do; don’t meet the oar that way, take it back to you; finish hard and full. Bow, you begin to slide forward too soon; start your swing first and let it carry the slide with it. Three, you’re doing better to-day. Keep the leg-power up to the last moment; knees down firm at the end of the stroke.” And Trevor, tugging heroically, hears, and begins to think that perhaps he will learn the stroke eventually, after all!

When work was over Kirk again brought up the subject of Taylor. “Yes, we must have him back, Hope; tell him so; make him understand that it’s necessary. He’s a good oar; fits into his place well; has lots of weight where he needs it.”

“I’m afraid he won’t come back,” answered Dick. “He’s got it into his head that he can’t go in for rowing and pass his exams.”

“Pooh! never mind what he’s got into his head; tell him we need him in the boat; make him understand that it’s his duty, Hope. And I tell you we do need him, my boy; never saw such an unpromising lot of fellows at Hillton. That man you had at seven to-day couldn’t fill the place in the boat; he’s too light; don’t think he has the grit for it, even if he learned to put some power into his stroke, which he doesn’t at present. You’ve got a good man at bow; what’s his name? Shield? Well, he’s promising. And Three, I like Three’s looks; seems to be in earnest, though he has a deuce of a queer way of throwing his body around the boat.”