Читать книгу Frank Merriwell, Jr., in Arizona; or, Clearing a Rival's Record - Burt L. Standish - Страница 11

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“What’s on to follow this race, Chip?” asked Clancy, while they were waiting.

“A half mile for single paddles,” Merry answered.

“That will give Pink a chance, if there are canoes enough to go round.”

“Don’t fret about Pink,” called that worthy from the bank, happening to overhear the talk between his chums. “I’m going to run along the bank and root for the heroes of Farnham Hall. I invented canoes, and naturally I’m a better paddler than Red, but I can put more heart into you from the shore than I could with a paddle.”

Clancy slapped the water with his paddle and threw a small shower over Ballard.

“You invented the long bow, too, you old chump,” laughed Clancy, “and you’re a champion hand at pulling it. Come on in, the water’s fine.”

Ballard had leaped out of the way of the shower, and was sputtering about his wet clothes.

“You’ll get all you want of the water if I’m any prophet, you red-headed false alarm!” he shouted. “For half a cent I’d wade out there and swamp you.”

“Somebody got a nickel?” sang out Clancy. “Throw it to Pink and let him keep the change.”

At just this point, the other canoes glided out into the water, taking up their positions on each side of Merry and Clancy.

“All ready?” cried a fellow named Dart, who was acting as starter, as the canoes lined up.

“All ready!” came the chorus from the racers.

“Then, go!”

Splash went the paddles, and the light, graceful water craft jumped ahead like restless thoroughbreds. Before they had gone twenty feet, Merry realized that in Bleeker and Hotchkiss he and Clancy had foemen worthy of their mettle. The lads in the other craft were working hard, but were left behind almost from the start. By an unlucky move they overturned their canoe before the Point was reached, and the last Frank saw of them on the first lap they were swimming for the bank, towing their water-logged craft.

Clancy was in the stern, and he was doing the steering in masterly fashion. Frank, wielding his paddle with grace and power, knelt at the bow.

“Steady, Clan!” he called. “Don’t use up all your ginger at the beginning!”

“Steady it is,” answered Clancy.

Bleeker and Hotchkiss were working like Trojans. Foot by foot they drew ahead of the other canoe.

“Dig, you Farnham Hall fellows!” bellowed Ballard from the bank. “What do you think this is—a picnic excursion? Dig, I tell you! If you’re last at the finish, don’t you ever speak to me again.”

“Come on, you Bleek!” shouted the Gold Hillers.

“Come on, Hotch!”

“Keep it up, Gold Hill! You’ve got ’em beaten.”

“Oh, you Bleeker! We’re slow at football, but I reckon we’re there with the goods on the water.”

“It isn’t Jode Lenning you’re up against now, Merriwell!”

All this rooting on the part of the Gold Hill fellows did not in the least disturb Merriwell or Clancy. They were paddling like clockwork, but were saving their energies for the last lap. After the white flag was met and turned, they’d begin to show what they were made of.

The main thing was to keep a clear head and steady nerves while the competing canoe was moving away from them. And in this certainly Merriwell and Clancy were put to a severe test.

Before the Point was reached, the stern of the other canoe was even with Merry’s position in the bow of his own craft. Bleeker had the inside, and he went so close to the perpendicular wall of the cliff that his paddle touched the base of the rocks. He looked over at Merry.

“Come on, old man!” he called.

“Not yet, Bleek,” Merry answered, with a laugh. “We want you to get farther ahead first.”

“Much obliged! Now watch us.”

Merry and Clancy had to go farther in getting around the Point than Bleeker and Hotch, for they were forced farther away from the cliff. Inasmuch as the gulch curved at the Point, the rival canoe was offered an advantage, similar to that which comes to a pole horse on the oval of a race track. When once more on a straightaway, Bleeker and Hotch were leading by a full canoe length.

The boys on the bank had not been able to get around the Point, so some of them, including Ballard, crossed to the opposite shore in the other canoes.

“What’s the trouble with you chumps?” shouted Ballard. “Don’t you know the other boat’s ahead? Buckle in—paddle like you used to. Do better than that, Red, or I’ll swim out there and take your place.”

“You got ’em, Bleek!” cried the Gold Hillers frantically. “Keep a-coming!”

“Here’s where the chip off the old block gets a setback! I reckon Merry’s dad was better with a baseball than he was with a paddle!”

In the excitement of the moment some ill-considered words were roared across the water. This remark, by a Gold Hill partisan, was probably excusable, in the circumstances, but it struck a spark from Merry’s temper.

It opened up the old, tantalizing question of heredity—the very thing which Merriwell had called a “handicap.” His father could pitch better than he could paddle, could he? If that was the case, then by winning that contest he might prove that what he had learned about canoes had come to him in his own right.

“Good old Merry!” cried one of the Gold Hill crowd, by way of tempering the unwise rooting of his camp-mate. “You’re the stuff! Never say die is your slogan—and that’s all that came down to you from the champion in Bloomfield.”

A thrill raced along Frank’s nerves. At the risk of giving the competitors a still longer lead, he looked shoreward to locate the chap who had called those electrifying words.

“Pink is a peach of a rooter—I don’t think,” grumbled Clancy.

“Never mind, Pink,” laughed Frank, his momentary flash of temper passing, “he’s trying to spur us across the finish line instead of giving us a pull. Ah! There’s the flag, Clan!”

A bit of white fluttered on the left-hand bank. Bleeker and Hotchkiss had already made the turn and were coming down.

“We’ll be at the finish to welcome you fellows!” jubilated Hotch.

“Maybe you’ll do better in the singles,” shouted Bleeker. “It’s hardly fair, anyway. You haven’t gripped a paddle for a long time, while we’ve been at it every day for a week.”

“Don’t fret about that, Bleek,” grinned Clancy.

He could grin, but nevertheless he was worried. He and Merry had a lot of strength to draw on, but could they be sure that Bleeker and Hotchkiss had not a lot of power in reserve? The next few minutes would tell the tale.

The canoe came around, and headed away on the final stretch. Bleeker and Hotchkiss, the silver spray sparkling under the strong dip of their paddles, were all of five canoe lengths in the lead.

“Now, Clancy!” cried Merriwell. “We must get the inside track around the Point! Let yourself out, old man!”

Then and there the Farnham Hall lads began doing their prettiest. They bent to their work in a way that was beautiful to see, and the strength they had been nursing for just that moment expended itself in a wonderful burst of speed.

“Now you’re coming!” screeched Ballard. “Keep that up, Chip, and you’ll pass the other canoe and leave it out of sight!”

“Don’t lose your nerve, Bleek!” shouted the Gold Hillers. “Crack your backs! Pull, I tell you! For the honor of Gold Hill, you junipers! For the love of Mike, don’t let this chance get away from you!”

“Gold Hill winners, hump, you sinners!”

It was evident to Frank, however, that Bleeker and Hotchkiss had put the best of their energy into the first half of the race. The wise precaution of husbanding their muscle for the wind-up had not appealed to them. They had wanted a good lead at the start-off—and were probably hoping that the lead could not be overcome.

Yard by yard Merry and Clancy overhauled the canoe ahead. Every thrust of the paddles, sturdy and strong and swift, carried the rear craft forward for a gain. Halfway to the point the canoes were side by side.

Bleeker and Hotchkiss had no breath nor inclination for joshing. Their faces were white and set, and their arms knotted at the biceps with the strain they put upon their dipping blades. Every nerve was stretched to the breaking point.

It was a good race, a splendid race. No matter which canoe won, the joy of those fleeting moments as they came down the homestretch would be happily remembered by victor and vanquished.

Bleeker and Hotchkiss must have realized how their opponents had been playing the game. They had played it squarely, too, and had calmly watched their rivals lead in the first half of the race. Now, at last, Bleeker and his canoe mate understood that they were facing a crisis, and that only heartbreaking work could save the day.

They labored so well, for a considerable distance, the canoes continued to remain side by side.

“Want us to wait for you, Bleek?” called Clancy.

Bleeker had other uses for his breath, however, than wasting it on replies to the red-headed fellow in the other craft.

“Once more, Clan!” cried Merriwell. “Hug the cliff—we’ve got to!”

Half a dozen sweeps of the paddles and Merry and Clancy were leading. A few more sweeps, and Clancy sent their craft across the bows of their rivals.

They were on the inside now, those Farnham Hall boys, and paddling like fiends. A few moments more and they were under the shadow of the Point.

And then—something happened. Was it accident, or was it design? Intent on their work, none of those in the two canoes could tell; nor could the frantic lads on shore.

Clancy heard a crash and roar above him. A glance aloft showed a bowlder dropping downward from the top of the Point. To Clancy, it looked as big as a house, and in a flash he knew it must strike the canoe.

The red-headed chap’s heart jumped into his throat. For a heartbeat he sat powerless, stunned by what he saw. Then he roused up suddenly, with a yell:

“Jump, Merry! Jump for your life!”

On the instant, Clancy dropped his paddle and went overboard. His frantic plunge overturned the canoe, and Merry was in the water almost as soon as his chum.

The falling bowlder just grazed the overturned canoe, splashed into the waves and sent up a geyser of foaming spray.