Читать книгу Left to Themselves: Being the Ordeal of Philip and Gerald - Edward Prime-Stevenson - Страница 6

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The guests of the Ossokosee had the pleasure of seeing a bright, still day for the regatta. By nine o’clock the shady road leading to the lake began to echo with carriages. In the little wind that stirred flags swayed down in the village and from the staffs on the Ossokosee and the little boat-house. As for the pretentious Victors’ head-quarters, they were flaunting with streamers and bunting to an extent that must have severely taxed the treasury.

“I don’t see where so many more people than usual have come from!” exclaimed Mr. Marcy to Gerald and Mrs. and Miss Davidson as they drove along toward the starting-point. And, in truth, for a race between two crews of lads, and of such local interest, the crowd was flattering. Country wagons lined the bank, in which sat the farmers of the district, with their wives and daughters gorgeously arrayed in pink and blue and white calico gowns; and bunches of roses and dahlias were every-where about them.

“There are Mr. Wooden and Mrs. Wooden, with Miss Beauchamp,” exclaimed Gerald, nodding his head vigorously to the group.

Fashionable carriages were not few, filled with ladies in gay colors, who chatted with knickerbockered young men, or asked all sorts of questions of their husbands and brothers and cousins about the two crews.

“Those must be regular parties from the other hotels about here,” said Miss Davidson, “made up expressly to drive over here this morning. Well, well!”

“Yes,” Mr. Marcy assented, “I never expected to see such a general turning out at one of the Ossokosee regattas. Do notice, too, how the shores over there are covered with people, walking and sitting! Bless my heart! I hope that Phil and his friends are—h’m—not going to be so badly beaten, when there are so many hundreds of eyes to see it! Never was such a fuss made over our race before, especially a race so late in the season.”

Mr. Marcy jumped out. They were near the Ossokosee boat-house. After he had seen how the oarsmen who bore the name and credit of his hotel were feeling over their coming struggle he was to get into a good-sized barge with several other gentlemen, one of them being the starter and umpire.

Gerald was looking at him with the full power of his blue eyes as Mr. Marcy stood directing the driver where to station the carriage for Mrs. Davidson and her daughter. The boy’s glance was so eloquent that the proprietor of the Ossokosee House exclaimed:

“Why, Gerald, what was I thinking of? You come along with me if you choose to. That boat is apt to be crowded, but you’re a little fellow and wont add much to the party. I guess I can have you squeezed in.”

So the delighted boy followed his elderly friend through the grass toward the boat-house and the judge’s barge.

“Shall I see Philip?” he asked, as they advanced to the inclosure. A long line of stragglers hung about the gate leading down to the Ossokosees’ quarters. The village constable good-naturedly kept them from entrance.

“Yes; come right along,” Mr. Marcy said, taking Gerald’s hand. They hurried down to the rear door together.

“Hurrah! there’s Mr. Marcy,” was the exclamation, as they were allowed to step in. The six boys, Philip and Davidson foremost, were already in full rig and busy over the long shell just about to be easily deposited in the water by the side of the float. Mr. Marcy and a couple of his friends saw this feat accomplished safely. Others of the barge-party walked in. The excitement became general. All the oarsmen talked at once, gave opinions of the state of the water, bewildered Mr. Lorraine or Mr. Marcy with questions, and hurried about the dim little boat-house to attend to the usual last things and one.

“Well, Frank, what do you think?” inquired Gerald of Davidson, with a face of almost painful interest as he glanced first at Touchtone, then at him.

“He thinks just what I think, Gerald,” interrupted Philip, pulling the crimson silk handkerchief lower across his forehead, “and that is—”

“That the Victors are bigger men with a lighter boat, and have beaten us for three years running,” Davidson said, quickly; “but that the weather is perfect, that the water is as smooth as if we’d taken a flat-iron to it, and that the Victors don’t pull together after the style the Ossokosees do. Look at them now out yonder as they come around the point again! See that second fellow! If he don’t keep better stroke he can put the whole crew out!”

Twenty minutes later Gerald was seated out under the awning of the barge, sandwiched between Mr. Lorraine and Captain Kent. He waited in feverish impatience for the grand moment. The umpire, a Mr. Voss, from the next county, was arranging some matters between Mr. Marcy and the supporters of the Victors. There were to be three races; but, the second one being between two members of the Victors, and the last an informal affair between four of the village lads in working-boats, the special rivalry was not eclipsed. Gerald’s heart beat faster and faster as the crowd along the shores cheered six figures in crimson that glided quietly to their post of departure on the east; accompanied by the second shout for the yellow-filleted Victors who pulled proudly across the open water and rested, like pegs driven into its bed, opposite their rivals.

“Looks as if it would be an uncommon good race for both of ’em!” Gerald heard some one near him say. But Mr. Voss was standing up and waving his hand.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready!” from the right.

“Are you read-y?”

“Ready!” from the left.

“Go!”

Bang! And the echoes clanged over the low hills and startled Farmer Wooden’s skittish colt as Mr. Voss dropped his arm with the smoking pistol. Neck and neck, with a quick, snapping leap of the oars and a splendid start with which neither crew could quarrel, the slender, shining shells shot rod after rod up the lake.

Babel began at once—cries, cheers, applause. “Victors! Victors!” “Go it, Ossokosee!” “That’s it; stick to the lead!” “Ossokosee forever!”

“That aint no bad send-off for the Ossokosees!” exclaimed Farmer Wooden to his wagon-load as the swift flight of the boats made them diminish in size every few seconds.

“No,” said Miss Beauchamp, with her head full of Philip and of his satisfaction if there should be any bettering of the Ossokosees’ record; “but those strong-armed fellows in the Victors’ boat are holding off, Mr. Wooden. Don’t you see that? They’re going to give a tremendous spurt after that stake-boat is turned.”

By this time the road that ran parallel with the course was in a whirl of wheels. Dozens of carriages dashed up after the boats, to lose no yard of the contest. The Ossokosees were, in fact, a little in advance of the Victors. But, as Miss Beauchamp had supposed, that was evidently the policy of the older champions. They darted along well to the left of their rivals and kept carefully outside of a certain long strip of eel-grass where a danger-signal had been driven, and with their rapid pulling they were already beginning to lessen the number of boat-lengths between them and their opponents. Every body having taken it for granted that the excitement of this race was not who should beat, but how honorably the hotel faction should be beaten, there arose all along the mile of skirting land a buzz and then ragged cheers as people began all at once to discover the new possibility of the Victors being dishonored for once in their proud career.

“Hi! Look at that, I tell you, Fisher!” cried Mr. Marcy, as enthusiastic as Gerald himself, when he made up his mind that up there toward that stake-boat the Victors now began to pull with might and main. “Our boys—why, our boys are working like Trojans! And those chaps have found it out!”

“Hurrah! They’re ’round the stake-boat first, as true as I live!” said somebody else in the barge.

Gerald was standing balanced on the outermost edge of a seat, with Mr. Marcy’s arm about him to keep him in any kind of equilibrium. His eyes sparkled like stars as he held up his field-glass, and his color came and went with every cry he heard. It was for Philip’s sake; all for Philip! It was wonderful, by the bye, how many persons watched that race that morning, giving one thought for the Ossokosees in general and two to Philip Touchtone!

“Yes, they are!” exclaimed another. “Gracious! what ails the Victors? Pull, you sluggards, pull, I say! Those boys are gaining on you every second with that stroke. It must be nearly forty.” Louder and louder rang the clamor from all sides as the stake-boat was left behind by the belated Victors, not after all so much in arrear of the Ossokosees. Every body knew that the most remarkable “finish” ever to be dreamed of for Ossokosee Lake was begun. The carriages rolled quicker and quicker back to the goal, and began to pack together in the open meadow, abreast of the judge’s barge. Shouting boys and men ran frantically along the road and side-paths, waving hats. From the knots of on-lookers, the crowded Victors’ club-house, the private boats moored by the ledges, fluttered handkerchiefs, veils, and shawls in the hands of standing spectators; and every thing increased in intensity, of course, as the two glittering objects flashed forward nearer, nearer, until the bending backs of the six rowers in each could be seen, crimson and yellow—and the panic-struck yellow sweeping onward last!

“O-h-h-h! Victors! Victors!” rang the echoes on the left, where most of the village partisans lined the wagon. “Ossokosees!” “Now, then, Ossokosees! Give ’em your best!” “Good for you! That’s right, don’t let ’em make it!” “Touchtone! O, Touchtone!” “Go it, Dater, that’s the way to give it to ’em!” “One good spurt now, Victors, and you can have it your own way!” “Bravo, Ossokosee!” “Oss-o-ko-see!” And then mingled with all this voicing of favorites, began the patter, at first gentle, but strengthening, of thousands of hands clapping together in the open air, and whips and sticks pounded on wagon-bottoms, and parasols clattered with them. O, it was a great finish; and—sweep—sweep—as the now desperate Victors flew down it was clear that Philip and his friends were not yet nearly overtaken, and that with a hope that gave each arm the power of steel the Ossokosees were bound to win that race if they could hold two minutes longer their advantage.

Gerald let fall his hand. Mr. Marcy, Mr. Lorraine, Mr. Voss, and the others were leaning forward in strong hope; and, as to the friends of the Victors, in courage till the last. The stroke of the Ossokosees was weakening a trifle now, just at the unluckiest climax. In fact, the six had never pulled so fast in their lives as something had enabled them to do to-day. Their flesh and blood and wind were likely to fail at any instant now, in revenge. If Davidson should faint, or McKay come within a tenth of catching the smallest crab, why, then the charm must break and all end in defeat.

Many times since that day Gerald Saxton has said, smiling, “Well, I shall never forget the first time I knew that praying for a thing meant that you wanted it with all your heart and being! I prayed over a boat-race once, when I was a little boy.”

“Now, then, steady with that match!” called Mr. Voss to the men in charge of the salute to greet either winners and signal the race’s end. “They’ve got it! They’ve got it, sure!” cried Mr. Marcy, squeezing Gerald till the little boy wondered if his ribs would stand it.

Ah, now desperate Victors, that was a splendid spurt, but it’s of no use! Two and one half lengths behind instead of three; that is all you get by it, and there are six rowers in that boat ahead of you who will fall over, and overboard, before you shall pass them now. Again? Another spurt? Yes; well done, and you deserve the cheer for it that you scarcely hear in your frantic efforts. But there is a roar drowning it out already, which signals your defeat. At them! At them one last time, Dater, the Consequential! But you know how to pull. It must be the last. For, look! you can see the very scarf-pins in the bosoms of Mr. Voss and Mr. Marcy in the barge; and on it with them, in an agony of delight at your vain prowess, stands Gerald Saxton, the friend of Philip Touchtone—Philip Touchtone, whose strong stroke has helped mightily to tell against you all the way up and back. Ah, you falter a little now; nor can you save yourselves by any more spurting. The green amphitheater rings again and again with cheers and applause, but not for you. You dart two boat-lengths behind those crimson shirts, that even your warmest friends yonder must hurrah over as they shoot by the goal! The cannon booms out their welcome far and wide! You who are the Victors must call yourselves the Defeats, for the race is over and the Ossokosees have won it gloriously!

How the next half hour passed for Philip, Davidson, McKay, Rice, and all that enraptured crew, as they received in the boat-house the friends who could press their way inside to congratulate them—this the reader may imagine. Philip and his friends forgot how exhausted they were in the delight of such praises and hand-shakings. As for Gerald and Mr. Marcy, they were among the first to greet them when they were cool enough to quit their shell for a few moments. Gerald was quite unnerved with rapture.

“O, Philip,” he exclaimed, “I never was so glad over any thing in my life!” And the boy spoke the exact truth.

“You deserve to be carried home on a church-steeple—a blunt one—every one of you!” declared Mr. Marcy, adding to the patron of the Victors, who stood near him, “Mr. York, your young men have lost their laurels forever. Our boys don’t intend to be beaten again.” And, as a matter of fact, they never were; for the Ossokosee Club rowed them another year and utterly routed them, and before the third season the Victors were disbanded and a new organization had grown out of their ruins.

The two other races were duly pulled. Dater came out first in that which concerned his own club. The Ossokosees were presented at the side of the barge with their prize. Mr. Voss made a little speech. The crowd gave their final cheers as Philip received it for his associates. That two hundred dollars was to be spent in improving the boat-house. Somebody had talked of buying a new shell with it; but that was not heard of again after the day’s deeds with the old one. Then the crowds broke up. The carriages rolled in different directions. The excitements of the morning were over. In the evening there was to be a special reception at the Ossokosee House, given by Mr. Marcy.

“But I never went to a regular grown-up party, even,” protested Gerald, in visible concern when Miss Davidson declared he must go with her and see how Philip and the rest would be lionized. “I—I’m not old enough.”

“Neither am I, for that matter, Gerald,” laughed Philip, with a droll glance at the amused Miss Davidson; “so you ought to go along to keep me company. I am not a ladies’ man, like Davidson or McKay.”

“Well, you will have to walk about the hotel dining-room with some girl; you see if you don’t,” declared Gerald. But Philip did not. Nearly all the evening Gerald found his friend near him, where the boy could listen to the fine speeches lavished on Touchtone and every member of that crew of Ossokosee—quite numerous enough to turn older heads than Philip’s. Miss Beauchamp, who was quite old enough to be Philip’s aunt, declared that she, for her part, “felt jealous of Gerald” when Philip said that he would leave the scene for a while to see the boy quickly to his bed, Gerald having become fagged out with his enjoyment.

“You had better adopt him, Touchtone,” Mr. Marcy suggested as the two turned away.

“O, I will, if his father will let me,” retorted Philip, laughingly.

“Humph!” said Mr. Marcy, half aloud, “I doubt if he’d mind it half as much as he ought.”

The party broke up half an hour later. Early hours were the custom at the Ossokosee. Philip was to sleep in Gerald’s room that the accommodation he thus vacated might be given to some particular guests. The races had filled the house.

The hotel grew quiet. Mr. Marcy had not read the evening mail through, so busy had he been kept during the regatta. He sat in the office with his night-clerk, concluding the letters hastily.

“Holloa!” he exclaimed, breaking a seal, “Nova Scotia post-mark? Saxton’s hand? I guess I’d better look at it before I go to bed.” He glanced at the first lines. His face grew attentive. He read on and turned the page. It wasn’t a long letter, but it was plainly about an important matter.

He laid it down. Then, folding his arms, he stared in consideration at the uninteresting picture of a North German Lloyds steamship over his desk. Then he said, half aloud, “Certainly he’ll do! He’s just the person.” He rose quickly. “I’ll go up and read it to them at once. No! On second thoughts, they would neither of them sleep a wink if I did. To-morrow will do.”

Mr. Marcy put the letter in the desk, turned out the gas, bade Mr. Keller good-night, and walked away to his room.

In that letter were involved the fortunes of the two lads, the big and the little one, who were asleep in Number 45, Gerald with one hand under his yellow head and the other just touching Philip’s arm; as if he would have him mindful, even in dreams, that their existences now had ceased to be divorced, and that a new responsibility had come to Touchtone in that fact.