“Not more than twenty seconds slower for the whole course,” said Hargreaves. “I rowed over the course in a pair oar with Murchison later, to see how it was.”
“Anything wrong?” asked Dick. “Any one man off his form?”
“No,” said Benton. “They rowed just as well as they did before. Form all right—stroke absolutely correct. Simply didn’t have the speed and the steam that the freshmen put in. They worked hard. The boat seemed to hang more than it did—that was enough to account for the slower time. What I can’t account for is the check. There was almost no run at all between strokes. It’s got us guessing. That was why we were so glad to see you heave in sight when you did to-night.”
Dick looked at his watch.
“Time to turn in,” he said. “I’m not strong for Sunday rowing, but we’ll have to have them out to-morrow and see what’s wrong. It certainly sounds like a Chinese puzzle, to hear you describe it. But I guess there’ll be some way to explain it when we get right down to cases.”
CHAPTER XXV
THE HATCHING OF THE PLOT.
New London is not a great city, but it is a busy and prosperous one, and, especially about boat-race time every year, it presents a scene of great activity and one with a good many elements of the picturesque. It has the finest harbor on the coast between New York and Boston, and is a favorite place for yachtsmen. Before the annual regatta between Yale and Harvard on the historic Thames River, the harbor begins to fill up with yachts of all sorts and sizes, which, on boat-race day, line the course, and provide a splendid vantage ground for those fortunate enough to be invited to witness the race from their decks.
On this Saturday night, with the race still five days distant, the harbor was already well filled with craft. Two revenue cutters, assigned to guard the course and prevent accidents on the day of the races, as well as to give the racing shells a clear path of water for their contest, lay at anchor near the eastern point, and further in the anchor lights of two score small vessels already showed. First come, first served, is the rule in assigning stations along the course for the race, and few owners cared to take chances by a belated arrival.
One of these boats was very different from its neat, trim neighbors. It looked more like a fishing vessel than a yacht, and it flew the burgee of no well-known yacht club. Its decks were slipshod and messy; its spars were in bad order, and dirty sails, untidily stowed away, bore testimony to the carelessness of its crew and the loose ways of its skipper. The boat, named the Marina, and hailing from Gloucester, Massachusetts, was a fairly large one, schooner rigged, but evidently making little use of its sails for getting around. It had a powerful gasolene motor to serve as an auxiliary engine, and was, therefore, independent of its sails if their use was not desired.