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Frank Merriwell at Yale, a novel by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 26. The Race |
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_ CHAPTER XXVI. THE RACE The day for the race came at last--a sunny day, with the air clear and cold. Just the right sort of a day for the best of work. Everybody seemed bound for Lake Saltonstall. They were going out in carriages, hacks, coaches, on foot, by train, and in many other ways. The road to the lake was lined with people. The students were shouting, singing and blowing horns. One crowd of freshmen had a big banner, on which was lettered:
The scene at the lake was beautiful and inspiring, for the shore was lined with people and there were flags and bright colors everywhere. On the point there was a great mob, composed mostly of students, who were yelling and cheering and flaunting their flags. The boats on the lake were well filled and gay with colors. New Haven swell society was fairly represented, and it certainly was an occasion to stir youthful blood. The freshman-sophomore-junior race came fourth on the list, and it was to be the event of the day. Strangely enough, the juniors were not reckoned as dangerous by either freshmen or sophomores. Between the last two classes was to come the real tug of war. In the boathouse the great Bob Collingwood, of the 'Varsity crew, gave the freshmen some advice, and they listened to him with positive awe. He had heard of Merriwell's attempt to introduce the English stroke, and he did not approve of it. After he had got through Merriwell took his men aside into another part of the boathouse and warned them against thinking of anything Collingwood had said. "He is all right when he is talking to men who use his style of oar and the regular American stroke, but you will be broke up sure as fate if you think of what he has said that disagrees with my instructions. It is too late now to make any change, and we must win or lose as we have practiced." "That's right," agreed every man. "We'll win," said Rattleton, resolutely. They could hear the cheering as the other races took place, and at last it came their turn. How their hearts thumped! And it was Merriwell that quieted their unsteady nerves with a few low, calm words, which seemed to give them the bracer which they needed before going into the race. 'Umpty-eight yelled like a whole tribe of Indians, wildly waving flags, hats and handkerchiefs, as the freshman boat shot out upon the lake, with Merriwell at the stroke. They did not row in the buff, as the weather was too cold, but all wore thin white shirts, with "'Umpty-eight" lettered in blue on the breast. Old rowers looked the freshmen over with astonishment, for they gave the appearance of well-drilled amateurs, and not greenhorns. There were a few expressions of approval. The novel stroke was watched and criticised, and an old grad who was regarded as authority declared that the man who set the stroke for that crew was a comer, providing he was built of the right kind of stuff. Then came the sophs and juniors, both pulling prettily and gracefully, and both being cheered by their classes. The juniors were light, but they expected to walk away from the freshmen, as they had an expert at the stroke and had been coached by Collingwood. Soon the three crews lined up, and the voice of the referee was heard: "Are you ready?" Dead silence. "Go!" Away shot the boats, and the sophs took the lead directly, their short, snappy stroke giving the boat the required impetus in short order. The juniors held close on to them, while the freshmen seemed to take altogether too much time to get away, striking a regular, long, swinging stroke that seemed to be "overdone," as a jubilant sophomore spectator characterized it. The sophs along the shore and on the point were wild with delight. They danced and howled, confident of victory at the very outset. The juniors were enthusiastic, but not so demonstrative as the sophomores. The freshmen cheered, but there seemed to be disappointment in the sound. "Whoop 'er up for 'Umpty-seven!" howled the sophs. "Whoop 'er up! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! This is a cinch!" "'Umpty-eight is in it; she will catch 'em in a minute," sang the freshmen. "She is crawling on them!" "All she can do is crawl!" yelled a soph, but his remark was drowned in the wild tumult of noise. "'Umpty-six is up to tricks!" shouted the juniors. "'Umpty-six, they are bricks! Whoop 'er up! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah!" The yelling of the freshmen became louder, for their crew was holding its own--was beginning to gain. "That is the best freshman crew that ever appeared at Saltonstall," declared a spectator. "Every man seems to be a worker. There's no one shirking." "And look at the stroke oar," urged another. "That fellow is the winner! He is working like a veteran, and he is setting a stroke that is bound to tell before the race is over." This was true enough. The strong, long stroke of the freshmen kept their boat going steadily at high speed once it was in motion, and they steadily overhauled the juniors, who had fallen away from the sophs. At the stake the freshman crew passed the juniors, and the freshmen witnesses had fits. But that was not the end of the excitement. The speed of the freshman boat was something wonderful, and it was overhauling the sophs, despite the fact that they were pulling for dear life to hold the lead. And now the shouting for 'Umpty-eight was heard on every side. The sophs were encouraging their men to hold the advantage to the finish, but still the freshmen were gaining. The nose of the freshman boat crept alongside the sophs, whose faces wore a do-or-die look. The suspense was awful, the excitement was intense: Then Rattleton was heard talking: "Well, this is the greatest snap we ever struck! I wonder how the sophs like the Oxford stroke? Oh, my! what guys we are making of them! It don't make a dit of bifference how hard they pull, they're not in the race at all. Poor sophs! Why don't they get out and walk? They could get along faster." That seemed to break the sophs up, and then a great shout went up as the freshman boat forged into the lead. They soon led the sophs by a length, and crossed the line thirty feet in advance. Then Rattleton keeled over, completely done up, but supremely happy. How the freshmen spectators did cheer! "'Umpty-eight! 'Umpty-eight! Whoop 'er up! 'Rah! 'rah!' rah!" It was another great victory for the freshmen--and Frank Merriwell, and that night a great bonfire blazed on the campus and the students made merry. They blew horns, sang, cheered and had a high old time. The freshmen made the most noise, and they were very proud and aggressive. Never had Yale College freshmen seemed happier. "Where is Merriwell?" was the question that went around. A committee was sent to search for him, and they returned with him on their shoulders. He tried to get down, but he could not. Uncle Blossom climbed on a box and shouted: "Three cheers for 'Umpty-eight, the winners!" The cheers were given. Easy Street leaped on another box and yelled: "Three cheers for Frank Merriwell, the winning oar!" It seemed that the freshmen were trying to split their throats. And not a few juniors joined with them, showing how much admiration Merriwell had won outside his own class. Walter Gordon cheered with the others, but Roland Ditson stood at a distance, beating his heart out with rage and jealousy. He was all alone, for at Yale not one man was left who cared to acknowledge Ditson as a friend. _ |
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