CHAPTER XII

THE BATTLING FLIVVER

Tom roomed with Billy Desmond, a second class fellow. Billy was both a football and crew man, this spring rowing at four on the School eight. The baseball team played away from home on Saturday, meeting Peebles School at Clear Lake, and after what had happened last week neither Tom nor Clif was enthusiastic about going along. Still, they probably would have gone if the crews hadn’t offered an attraction nearer home. First and second eights were to do battle over the short course against similar crews from Highland School, and, since Billy was to row in the first boat, Tom proposed attending the races rather than the baseball game. Clif was agreeable, but mentioned the fact dubiously that Double Lake was nearly four miles away from the entrance of West Hall.

“Heck, I’m not suggesting that we tramp it!” said Tom. “Far, far from such, old scout. There’s a fellow in the village who’s got a beautiful flivver, and I’m pretty sure I can get him to take us over and back for a couple of dollars.”

“You mean that chap who drives the ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’?” exclaimed Clif, outraged.

“Sure. Why not? The thing goes all right, so what do you care how it looks?”

“We-ell, but you’re sure we can’t hook a ride with one of the crews. Those busses hold――”

“I know how many they hold, but there isn’t a chance. I asked Billy if he couldn’t smuggle us aboard, and he said nothing doing. Say, if it’s the dollar that’s worrying you, cheer up. I’m flush, boy!”

“No, I’m not worrying about the dollar, I’m worrying about my self-respect,” answered Clif. “All right, though. I’ll sacrifice even that for you, Tom. Hold on, though! Say, I wonder if Loring would go.”

“Loring? Gosh, I don’t believe so. Still, he might. That would mean taking Wattles, too, though.”

“Leave Wattles at home. As long as the car held together Loring would be all right. Let’s ask him.”

They did, and on Saturday afternoon “The Wreck of the Hesperus” rolled away from West Hall amidst the loud cheers of a hastily assembled audience. Wattles watched the departure with very evident disapproval and anxiety. In his opinion “The Wreck” was not a seemly conveyance for the son and heir of Mr. Sanford Deane to be observed in. And, besides, the contraption appeared to be on the verge of dissolution. No anxiety troubled the occupants of the ancient and dilapidated Ford, however, as it fled down the driveway and lurched, with a convulsive shudder, into Oak Street. The driver and owner, one Augustus Meggs, otherwise Gussie, was employed at a local garage as a mechanic. Gussie was about twenty, was long and angular, had a freckled face and remarkably prominent ears and chewed gum as a life work. He was always willing to tell how he had bought the car for eighty-two dollars three years before and had “remodeled her, by crickey” with such odds and ends as were to be found from time to time around the garage. Tom referred to Gussie as the “Skipper” and conversed in nautical terms with him all the way to the Lake. Gussie didn’t understand him much of the time, and was fully aware that his employer was having fun with him, but he didn’t mind. He had held out for three dollars and got it, and for three dollars any one could make fun of Gussie as much as he pleased. Secretly Gussie was of the opinion that the joke, if there was one, was on the passengers!

They made Double Lake without misadventure, the skipper of “The Wreck” taking things sort of easy after it had been explained to him that the boy who had been carried to the car was so brittle that he would fall to pieces if bounced around too hard. In fact, the skipper drove so cautiously that by the time the old Ford wheezed down to the boathouse landing the junior crews were already up at the start. It was a warm but blowy afternoon, and the blue waters of the lake were tipped with whitecaps. About fifty Wyndham youths, congregated around the boathouse, were cheering themselves red in the face, and after finding Billy Desmond and assuring him of their support, Clif and Tom returned to “The Wreck of the Hesperus” and bade the skipper warp his craft closer to the cheering section. Its arrival there met with loud acclaim, even the crews being for the moment forgotten by the cheerers. Gussie received the applause modestly, found a fresh piece of gum in a pocket of his flannel shirt and substituted it for the wad which had done such good service on the trip out, placed a stone under one of the back wheels――the brakes didn’t work very well, he explained――and joined the crowd. And just then the report of a pistol half a mile distant came faintly, and the cheering section broke into a confused medley of incoherent entreaties: “Come on, Wyndham!... Row, you dumb-bells!... Hooray! Hooray!... Hit it up! Hit it up!... Wyndham! Wyndham!... Come on! Come o-o-o-on!”

Wyndham was not looking for victory to-day. Until last year she had always put four-oared crews on the water and had won her share of triumphs. Last year, however, a generous graduate had given the school two new eight-oared shells, thereby somewhat complicating Wyndham rowing affairs. Horner Academy, the Dark Blue’s chief rival on the water, was still sticking to fours, and it was therefore necessary either to give up Horner that spring or to let the new shells lie on the racks. Horner practically promised to have at least one eight-oared crew ready for the following season, and so, partly for that reason and partly because it would have looked like base ingratitude not to use the gifts, Wyndham changed from fours to eights, muddled through the early season without a race and finally entered her first crew in a three-cornered event on the Housatonic River and finished third only because there was no fourth entry. One of the Wyndham rooters declared bitterly that, after the winning crew crossed the line, he ate three hot dogs before the dark blue oars came into sight! Still later that spring Highland, which had been boating eights for several years, came down to Double Lake and inflicted a second defeat. But Wyndham rowed a better race that day and made the opponent hustle to show a length and a half of water at the finish. The Dark Blue had learned much since then, but graduation had taken her best oarsmen, and to-day, in the first boat, only Captain Badger, at stroke, and Billy Desmond remained of those who had trailed Highland. As for the second crew, well, it was hoped that a few of them would still be pulling when the shell reached the finish――always supposing, that is, it ever did reach it!

But the eight occupants of the second boat――nine if we include young Carter, the cox――thought better of themselves than that. They seemed to have an idea that if they kept on digging their blue-tipped sweeps into the water long enough they could win the race. Of course, since only half of them had ever rowed in a shell before, this was a most astounding idea; so astounding that even Mr. McKnight, chemistry instructor and assistant rowing coach, who had charge of them, stared unbelievably from the launch when the two slim craft ahead passed the half-way flag apparently even. “Lovey” passed a hand over his eyes and looked again. There was no doubt about it, though; the stern of the Wyndham boat was not a yard behind the stern of the Highland shell. Not only that, but Wyndham was rowing as steadily as her rival, putting a lot of power into a twenty-eight stroke! About that time Lovey McKnight forgot his dignity, both the dignity befitting a faculty member and the dignity becoming to a coach, and was heard by other occupants of the Wyndham launch to babble wildly.

Over on the shore, the group by the landing had broken up. Its members were sprinting along the edge of the lake, waving whatever they could find to wave, shouting at the top of their lungs. Not all of them, though, for a handfull elected to see the finish from the landing, and among these were Tom and Clif and, of necessity, Loring. They had a clear view, but the angle kept them in uncertainty of the boats’ relative positions. Once it seemed that Wyndham had put a half-length between her and her rival, but a moment later they concluded that the boats were still practically side by side. The distance was a mile and a half, and at the mile flag both crews began to show the strain. Wyndham was splashing a good deal, and Number 6 in the Highland boat was rowing late and short. The Dark Blue hit up the stroke to thirty, to thirty-four, and seemed to gain for a time, but the Blue-and-White answered the challenge and eventually evened matters again. After that, to the watchers by the landing, it was anybody’s race right to the finish. They saw Wyndham pulling fast and hard and raggedly, Highland desperately rowing a stroke of thirty-six or better. Saw the boats shoot in front of the farther flag, saw the oars trail and tired forms in each shell slump in their places, saw the following launches slow and turn; and still they were in doubt. It was not until the Wyndham launch had started back that Clif uttered a yell of triumph.

“We won!” he shouted. “We won! Look at those fellows!”

“Those fellows,” by which Clif meant the launch’s occupants, were, indeed, acting very much as though pleased at the result. One or two, Mr. McKnight and Weldon, manager and first class member, perhaps, were behaving decorously enough, but there were at least six others there and these latter were performing antics that threatened to take them overboard!

“My Sainted Aunt Jerusha!” howled Tom. “We sure did! We beat ’em, Loring! What do you know about that? Are we the eel’s whiskers or aren’t we? I’ll say we are! I’ll tell the world――”

“Shut up!” some one begged. “They’re trying to tell us!”

A blue megaphone was pointing their way from the bow of the approaching launch. “Wyndham won,” came the hoarse bellow. “By about a third of a length! A-a-ay!”

“A-a-ay yourself!” yelled Tom. “Wait till you see what happens to ’em in the next race!”

But something happened before the next race, happened almost while Tom was still shouting through his funneled hands. He and Clif and the dozen or so others who had remained about the boathouse had clustered either on the float or along the edge of the water to get the message from the launch. Loring, in the back seat of the automobile, had been left alone in his glory a matter of ten yards up the little grassed slope. Perhaps in his delight over the victory he stirred himself enough to jar the car, for there was a _snap_ as the emergency brake released and a jolt as a rear wheel went over the inadequate stone placed before it. It was then that Loring’s shout of alarm reached the others. Perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that it reached Tom, for many voices were raised and through the babel Loring’s voice carried no message to most of the group. But Tom heard, looked and realized. The crazy vehicle was rolling slowly down the slope, heading for the edge of the lake. With an able-bodied boy in it, Tom would probably have remained where he was and laughed himself to death, for the automobile, after pitching a bit over a few loose rocks near the margin, would doubtless drop comfortably over the two-foot wall and come to a stop with the water no higher than its floor-boards, and even if its occupant had elected to stand by the ship no harm could come to him.

But it was a different story with Loring in the car, and Tom didn’t stop to laugh. He made a flying leap from the float to the low wall, hurling an inoffending youth head-over-heels in his flight, and charged up the slope. “The Wreck of the Hesperus” had started what she may have intended for her final voyage slowly and demurely, but with every foot traversed she had gathered speed, and when Tom reached her she was coming at a determined pace. He went up the slope with a yell that brought every head around, and on the instant other feet pounded behind his. But he couldn’t wait for help, and he knew it. Nor did he dare to try to reach the brakes. All that he could do was charge into the little car, head down and shoulders hunched, just as he might have charged into an opposing lineman. There were no falderals on “The Wreck,” no bumper to keep Tom from coming to close grips. He crouched and met the radiator with his left shoulder, digging his shoes into the sod.

But even as light a car as “The Wreck,” when it has an occupant and has made a fair start downgrade, is not to be stopped in any such manner. Car and shoulder came together with a force that made every bolt and rivet rattle and that hurled Tom a foot away and almost lost him his footing. But he staggered back to the fray, charged again, putting every ounce of strength and weight into the effort, and won a momentary victory. The car didn’t stop, but it did pause for an instant before pushing this strange obstacle before it again, and in that instant it lost some of its headway. And before it could gather speed again Tom had plenty of help.

One oversanguine youth seized “The Wreck” by a mudguard and promptly measured his length, the mudguard clattering about him. But others were more practical. Several joined Tom at the front while another leaped to the running board, slid into the car and applied brakes. “The Wreck” protested, bucked and abandoned her contemplated suicide. Gussie, his freckled countenance pale with emotion, swallowed his gum and came very near to strangling during the succeeding confusion. Clif had been too far distant to reach the car in time to be of use, but it was Clif who planted the first stone――no mere inconsiderable pebble this time――under a wheel and then jumped to the running board and anxiously faced a white but smiling Loring.

“Are you all right?” demanded Clif anxiously.

Loring nodded. He could smile, but he wasn’t ready for conversation yet. He pulled the discarded rug back over his knees first, and by that time Gussie had recovered from his choking and the crowd was clustering thick about the back seat, laughing, though rather nervously, and plying Loring with questions. Tom was conscious of two things just then. One was that his shoulder hurt horribly and the other was that he wanted above all things to beat Gussie to a pulp. He showed a fine determination to perform this feat, using one arm only, when peace-makers interfered and the alarmed Gussie was rescued. One of the fellows who claimed a knowledge of Fords started the car, and, with the others ready to leap upon it and throttle it if it showed a continued tendency to go into the lake, maneuvered it up the declivity and onto level ground. Gussie had forgivingly offered his services, but Tom had refused to trust him. By this time the launch had joined the waiting Wyndham first crew and together they were going down to the starting boats, and the episode of the runaway Ford was forgotten by the throng, now enlarged by the return of many who had followed the first race alongshore.

“Guess we’d better go home,” said Tom, scowling blackly at Gussie. “You must be all in, Loring.”

“I’m not, really, Tom. And I want to see the other race. But perhaps we’d better go so you can have your arm attended to. It must be awfully bruised up.”

“Heck, it doesn’t bother me. What do you say, Clif?”

In the end they decided to wait for the final event, but a quarter of an hour later they regretted not having gone when Tom proposed going, for the Dark Blue’s first crew, after getting the better of the start, was headed in the first quarter-mile by a smooth and powerful adversary and rowed off her feet――if the phrase is allowable here――before the mile was reached. After that, although Wyndham hung on doggedly, Highland opened water with every stroke and finished almost ten lengths ahead. “The Wreck of the Hesperus” returned to Freeburg at a slow and mournful pace, the apologetic but unforgiven Gussie very low of spirit. He had swallowed his last piece of gum.