The Eight-Oared Victors/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII
THE LONG VACATION
"Come on now, fellows! Hit her up!" exclaimed Jerry Jackson, in a low voice.
"No, not yet!" whispered Frank, as he bent forward in his place at stroke until he was nearer the lad at the tiller ropes. "Feel 'em out first, Jerry. Don't go breaking our hearts in the first mile. We've got a good ways to go in this little race, and the spurt will come toward the end, if I'm not mistaken. It would be pie for them if we rowed ourselves out, and then they would simply spurt past us. They're older hands at it than we are."
"I guess you're right, Frank," admitted Jerry, who took the advice in good part.
He had not been acting as coxswain long enough to feel resentment that his orders were not obeyed. He realized, also, that the lads at the oars had all the work to do, and, as it was not a regular race, when the coxswain had to be the general, it was no more than fair that the ones who had to do the labor should have a voice in saying how it was to be done.
"Wait until we—get into a—good swing. Let us pull at—this stroke—for a while," went on Frank, speaking rather jerkily, and whispering every time his head came close to Jerry, in leaning forward to make his stroke. "Watch 'em, and when—you think we can spurt—then give—the word."
"All right," assented the coxswain. He looked over at the Fairview shell, and noted that Roger Barns, the coxswain, was closely regarding the Randall eight.
"They're sizing us up," thought Jerry. "Well, we may not be such a muchness now, but by Hector! When we start in regular training this Fall, If we don't make 'em sit up and notice which side their tea is buttered on I'm a Dutchman, and that's no wallflower at a dance, either!" and Jerry shut his lips firmly and felt delicately of the tiller lines, shifting the rudder slightly to learn that the shell was in good control. She responded to the lightest touch, being indeed a well-built craft and as light as a feather, though with sufficient stiffness—that quality always hard to get in a frail shell.
The two racing machines were now moving swiftly along, being about on even terms. Now and then, seemingly in response to a signal from their coxswain, the Fairview lads would hang back a bit, allowing the Randall shell to creep up. Evidently it was a little trick, played with the hope that Randall would spurt, and give her rivals an opportunity to sweep ahead of them in splendid style, thus winning the impromptu race. If such was the intention Randall did not bite at the bait, for Frank, in a few whispered words to Jerry, advised him not to signal for a quicker stroke.
"Say, is this a race or a crocheting party?" grumbled big Dutch Housenlager. "Vat you t'ink, Kindlings."
"I'm thinking that—I'm—getting winded," panted Dan Woodhouse.
"Silence up there!" exclaimed Jerry, sharply. "It isn't a talking match, whatever else it is! You'll get all the race you want pretty soon. We're coming to a good stretch and I think they'll hit it up there. Be ready for the word, fellows."
"Say, boys, he talks; but he won't let us!" complained Bricktop, winking at Jerry.
"That means you!" insisted the coxswain. He glanced ahead. The launch with the coach had speeded off and was some distance up the river now, evidently waiting for the finish of the little brush.
The talk in the Randall eight had been carried on in low tones, for sounds carry wonderfully clear over water, and the lads, realizing this, did not want their rivals to hear them.
Jerry stole another glance at the Fairview eight, and, unconsciously, probably, nearly every Randall man did likewise. The result was some uneven and ragged rowing, and a bit of splashing.
"Eyes in the boat!" came the sharp command from the little coxswain.
"Oh, you tyrant!" breathed Bricktop Molloy, but his smile took the sting from the words.
An instant later Jerry detected a movement in the rival shell.
"The spurt is coming!" he reasoned. "We must be ready for it!"
He hesitated but an instant, and then, as he noted Roger Barns straighten up slightly in his coxswain seat, and take a fresh grip on the tiller ropes, Jerry called:
"Ready boys! Hit her up. Thirty to the minute!"
At once the Randall shell shot forward almost as though raised from the water, for the oars caught evenly and every man fairly lifted himself from his seat, to urge the craft ahead.
"Come on, now!" cried Jerry. "Keep it up!"
He swayed his body to indicate the time of the stroke, and he was pleased to note that all the lads in the shell were rowing in unison. The blades of the oars dipped well—not too and the feathering, while it might have been better, was fair for a raw crew. Jerry stole one look over to the Fairview eight, and noted that he had not been mistaken. They, too, had spurted at the same time. Randall had not been caught napping.
For several minutes this kept up, and Fairview could not seem to shake off her rival, and shoot ahead. Then a command could be heard given in that shell. What it was Jerry could not catch, but he saw the time of the Fairview rowers quicken.
"Can you stand another stroke or two, boys?" he asked in a low voice. Frank nodded without speaking. Indeed his breath, as well as the breath of his companions, was all needed for the work.
"A little livelier," ordered Jerry, and he added two more strokes to the minute. Of course the effect was not so great as before, but it told, and Fairview, which had begun creeping ahead, was held in check by Randall. Another minute passed, and then the superior training and practice of Fairview told. Slowly she forged ahead, and nothing the Randall lads could do could prevent it. They were at their limit now, or at least the limit to which Jerry dared push them. With straining eyes he shot a quick glance across, and noted with despair that Fairview was a good quarter of a length ahead. Another minute and she was a half.
"One more stroke!" pleaded the coxswain, and Frank nodded desperately. Slowly Randall began creeping up again, but it could not last.
And then came a narrow turn in the river, a rather dangerous place with cross currents.
"Easy all!" called Roger Barns, and his crew ceased rowing. It was a signal that the impromptu race was over.
"Easy all!" commanded Jerry, with a sigh that they had not won. But at that Fairview was only a scant quarter of a length In advance. Randall had been beaten, but not by much.
"Congratulations!" called Roger to his rival steersman. "You've coming on, Randall."
"Oh, we'll beat you in the Fall," retorted Jerry, cheerfully.
"We'd have walked away from you if it hadn't been the tail end of the season," declared Hadfield Spencer, the Fairview stroke. "We're not in training."
"Oh, don't crawl," said the coxswain. "They rowed a good race."
And this was praise indeed, from no mean rival, and from the coxswain of a crew that had given Boxer Hall, the river champions, a hard race.
"Well done, boys! Well done!" exclaimed Coach Lighton, as he came puffing up in his launch. "You did better than I expected you would. Fairview, we'll be ready for you in the Fall."
"We'll take you on all right," replied Roger Barns, with a genial laugh.
"And you steered exceedingly well, Jackson," went on the coach, as the Fairview shell pulled off. "I was afraid you would spurt too soon, but you held yourself well in."
"I was watching the other fellows," said Jerry.
"That's the way to do," was the comment. "Now take it easy to the float."
There was talk all through Randall that night of the performance of the eight.
"I think we have just the right crew now," confided the coach to Dr. Churchill, when he went to dine with the venerable head of Randall.
"Ah, I am exceedingly glad to hear that. It will be a source of gratification to the alumni who have so generously provided for the racing material. And you say our boys nearly won from Fairview? How many innings did the game go? What was the score, and did Parsons pitch?"
"Ah—er—my dear Doctor,—er—we were talking about the crew," said the coach, delicately.
"Oh, yes, so we were," admitted the good doctor, in some confusion. "I was thinking of football, was I not? And so we have a good crew. Hum! Very well. I am so occupied with my translations of those Assyrian tablets that I fear my mind wanders at times."
At times! Ah, Dr. Churchill, more often than "at times" did your mind wander! But what of that? It was keen enough on all occasions, though running in various channels, as many an old graduate will testify.
The practice at Randall went on. There were sore hearts, but it could not be helped when the lads who thought they should be picked for the tentative crews, or for the singles, were passed by. For Mr. Lighton was impartial, and insisted on only the best no matter at what cost.
Perhaps sorest of all was Boswell, he who had been displaced from what had come to be regarded as the varsity eight, though, as the coach pointed out, there might be changes in the Fall. Boswell was ordered into what was termed the "second" eight, but refused to go.
"I may not row at all," he said loftily to his crony, Pierce. "Or I may go in the singles."
"I would," suggested the latter. "My word! A man's his own boss in a single."
"I'll think of it," replied Boswell.
Examinations came, with all their grilling and nerve-racking tendencies, and were more or less successfully gotten through with by our friends and their chums. Then came the long vacation.