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The High School Boys' Canoe Club, a fiction by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 16. A Scalp-Hunting Disappointment |
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_ CHAPTER XVI. A SCALP-HUNTING DISAPPOINTMENT "Want to try us out, Gridley?" hailed Big Chief Hartwell, from the Preston High School canoe. It was nearly ten o'clock the next morning, but Dick & Co. had just finished putting their camp to rights after breakfast, for they had slept late after the feast. "Do we want to try you out?" Dick answered laughingly. "Why, we don't have to do that. We shall be ready to hand you a beating, though, at any time you ask for it. We can't help beating you, you know. It's the Gridley way!" "Brag is a good dog," derided Brown from the bow seat of the Preston canoe. "We keep both dogs here," Dave shouted tantalizingly. "Are you coming out to wallop us?" Hartwell insisted. "Yes; if you insist upon it," Dick agreed. "But we don't like to do it." "Get into your canoe and come out and see how much of your brag you can make good," was Hartwell's calm reply. "What? Now?" Prescott inquired. "'Now' is always the best time to do a thing," declared Mason, of Preston High School. "Oh, no," smiled Dick, with a shake of his head. "You fellows have been out for some time this morning. You'll have to give us time to warm up properly." "I didn't suppose Gridley needed a little thing like that," Hartwell taunted. "You Gridleyites are such sure winners, you know, that you ought not to need such a little thing as preparation." "One of the reasons why Gridley wins," Dick retorted, "is that we always use common sense when entering sporting events. So we'll ask you to oblige us with a gift of our rights in the matter. In fifteen minutes we'll be ready for you." Gently the canoe was launched in the water. Harry, with a remembrance of yesterday's events, called Towser, saying sternly: "Stay right here, boy, and watch. Maybe you'll get the rest of Rip's shirt to-day." "And maybe he won't," chuckled Dave. "That's what I call holding out false hopes to a dog. Rip won't venture within five miles of here to-day. Yet perhaps Towser will bag some other game for us." "Into the canoe with you, you loitering braves!" called Big Chief Prescott firmly. Away went the Gridley war canoe, gliding smoothly. "Our craft is the 'Pathfinder'," called Hartwell, across the water. "What do you call your boat?" "The 'Scalp-hunter'," smiled Dick. As a matter of fact he and his friends had forgotten to name the canoe, but he supplied the name on the spur of the moment. It made a prompt hit with his chums. "You don't believe you can win any race with such paddling as yours, do you?" Hartwell called derisively. "We don't show all our fine points to the enemy until the battle is on," was Prescott's amiable answer. "Even then you won't see all our best tricks; you'll be too busy paddling to keep in sight of us." Only very gradually did Dick allow his crew to warm up to their work. The Preston boys soon paddled over to the middle of the lake, and there lay resting. "Now, we'll go back and give them a brush," Dick murmured to his chums. "Don't exceed any orders that I give in the brush. Don't be at all uneasy if we find the Prestons going ahead of us." "Haven't we got to win?" queried Dave. "Especially after all the brag we've been throwing in their direction?" Tom supplemented. "We'll win if we can do it easily," Dick answered. "Otherwise we won't." "Then what becomes of our Gridley talk?" asked Greg. "The difference is that this isn't a real race to-day," Prescott explained. "This is only a brush, and we're in it only to see what the Preston boys can show us about canoe handling." At a rather slow, easy dip, the "Scalp-hunter" ranged up near the "Pathfinder." "All ready there, Gridley?" called Hartwell rather impatiently. "As ready as we're going to be," said Dick. "Flying start, or from a stop?" "Either," Dick nodded. "Then," proposed Hartwell, "move along until your prow is flush with ours. When I give the word both crews paddle for all they're worth. Steer for the two blasted pines at the lower end of the lake." "That's good," Dick agreed. Very gently the war canoe ranged alongside, her bark sides, well-oiled, glistening in the sunlight. The Preston canoe was not of bark, but of cedar frame, covered with canvas. Hartwell evidently wanted a wholly fair race, for he even allowed the "Scalp-hunter's" prow the lead of a couple of feet before he shouted: "Go it!" Amid a great flashing of paddles the two canoes started. The Preston High School craft soon obtained a lead of a foot or so, and held it. Now the contest was a stubborn one. Gridley gained two feet more. "You see," called Dick in a low voice, "this is the Gridley way." "Is it?" Hartwell inquired. "Hanky-pank!" Plainly enough the last two words were a signal. Though the Preston High School boys did not make much visible change in their style or speed of dip, the "Pathfinder" now gained perceptibly. Within a minute she had a lead of a clean ten feet, and seemed likely to increase the interval. "Why don't you come along, Gridley?" called back the big chief in the leading canoe. "Too early," smiled Dick. Nor did he allow the Gridley boys to increase their speed. Presently the "Pathfinder" led by two lengths. "Why didn't you tell us," Hartwell demanded over his shoulder, "that the much vaunted Gridley way is 'way to the rear?" "We haven't reached the pines yet, have we?" Dick asked. "No; and you won't, to-day, unless you push that clumsy tub of yours along faster." "Don't wait for us," Dick answered goodnaturedly. "We'll be here after a little while." "We'll wait for you when we land," laughed Hartwell. "Mumble bumble!" Another secret signal, surely, for again the "Pathfinder" began to increase the distance from the Gridley rival. "We'd better stop, and pretend we're only fishing," muttered Tom Reade, but Dick kept grimly silent. He was watching every move of the Preston paddlers. "Why, they're leading us four lengths," muttered Darrin, in an undertone. But Prescott appeared unworried. "We'll try to brace our speed, by and by," Dick answered. "And so will the other fellows," Tom surmised. "They're not going at anything like their pace as yet." For a quarter of a mile the canoes held the same relative position. "Now, liven up," Dick called softly. "One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!" Catching the rhythm, Dick & Co. put in some good strokes, their paddling becoming faster and stronger. A length and a half of the interval was closed up. "Porky-poo!" ordered Hartwell. Answering, the Preston High School boys paddled as though fury now possessed them. They held the pace, too. "Hit it up hard, now," Dick commanded. "One, two, three, four!" Never had Gridley responded more nobly on any field of sport or other contest than now. The paddles flew, their wet blades gleaming in the air, only to disappear under the water again. Each recovery was swift, prompt rhythmic! But Hartwell's crew was also showing the stuff of which it was made. "Stop paddling---back water!" shouted Hartwell finally. The "Pathfinder" lay on the water, motionless, only two yards from the shore on which stood the blasted pines. At that same instant the Gridley High School "Scalp-hunter" was a trifle more than seven lengths astern. "That was good and warming," smiled Big Chief Dick, as the second canoe came up. "Yah, yah, yah!" retorted the Preston High School boys, betraying their delight in derisive grins. "Where is that wonderful, all-conquering way you were telling us about?" chaffed Hartwell. "You'll find out when we race," smiled Prescott calmly. "When we race?" repeated Preston's big chief. "Didn't we race just now? Or do you consider that it wasn't a race just because you weren't in it?" "It wasn't a race," Dick answered. "Merely a brush." "Brush?" repeated Hartwell indignantly. "Didn't we challenge you fellows, and didn't you accept? Also, didn't you lose?" "We lost the brush," Dick admitted. "You lost the race to us," Hartwell declared stoutly. "Preston High School beat Gridley High School by several lengths!" "Hardly that," Dick retorted coolly. "Preston High School merely distanced some boys from Gridley High School. You didn't defeat a Gridley High School canoe crew." "Why didn't we?" the Preston High School big chief questioned. "Because, if you recall all the chat we had last night, the 'Scalp-hunter's' crew isn't yet official. We haven't been authorized by the Athletic Council of Gridley High School." "Is that the way you get out of it?" blurted Hartwell. "No," Dick smiled. "That's the way we get Gridley High School out of the charge of defeat. As soon as we're authorized to represent Gridley High School as an official canoe crew, then you may claim any victory you can obtain over us. But you haven't beaten our high school yet for the reason that we don't officially represent Gridley High School. Isn't that all clear?" "I suppose so," Hartwell assented disappointedly. "But we took it that we were racing the Gridley High School Canoe Club." "Then after this you want to do more thinking," Dick laughed. "But don't feel too disappointed, Preston. Just as soon as we receive sanction from our Athletic Council we'll give you a race in earnest, and a chance for all the glory you are able to take away from us." There was some further good-natured talk, after which the two canoe clubs separated. Dick guided the "Scalp-hunter" back to camp. There, as soon as the canoe had been hauled ashore, Dave Darrin threw himself on the grass, remarking: "This morning teaches us something! We're in no class with those Preston High School boys. We've no business racing, in the name of our school, before next summer!" _ |
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