CHAPTER XXXIII
THE PLOTTERS REFUSE TO QUIT.
One thing both Harvard and Yale could agree on. There couldn’t have been a better day for the race. The water at the mouth of the Thames never reaches the degree of mirrorlike smoothness that exists nearly always at Poughkeepsie, where the other great college boat race is rowed each year; but the oarsmen get used to the little chop of the water that is never entirely absent, and don’t mind it at all.
The day was warm, but not excessively so, and little fleecy clouds, chasing themselves across the blue sky, showed that the wind was a light one, quartering over the river from the northwest. That gave the crew that won the toss, and elected to row the last mile of the race under the shelter of the bank of the shore by choosing the westerly course, a slight advantage. Harvard won the toss, and took that course for the two eight-oared races, leaving it to Yale for the four, but the advantage was too slight to make it at all likely that it would be a decisive factor in the race itself.
The Thames is comparatively narrow, for an American river, at New London, but there is plenty of room for all the yachts that want to take up positions along the course. Now a double line of vessels, large and small, white and black, all gayly decked out with lines of flags, and bearing, as a rule, a great banner between their masts, to show whether their owners loved best the blue of Yale or the crimson of Harvard, was stretched along the river from the finishing point, near Gale’s Ferry, down to the navy yard, two miles away. There was no room for yachts at the finish itself, except on the outside, or eastern side of the course, but they were packed there in glorious array. The big white steam yacht that carried the judges of the finish was anchored directly opposite the finishing line itself, which was marked by two flags, and on board of her were the men who were to give the word for firing the guns that marked the finish, first for the winners, then for the losers.
Up and down the course, racing excitedly from one point to another, went the referee’s boat, with Billy Meikleham, the veteran Columbia oarsman, who had for years been the arbiter of all possible disputes between Yale and Harvard crews, standing in the bow with his megaphone, and stopping at Gale’s Ferry and Red Top to assure himself that all was well with the two crews, and that they were ready for the great race.
In New London, every train was adding to the crowds that surged through all the streets near the station. Pretty girls in abundance flaunted the crimson or the blue. Bill Brady, surveying them as he looked for his own party, decided that all the prettiest ones wore the blue, as was only proper, in his eyes. Bowen, the Harvard baseball captain, who bore no ill-feeling for the defeat of his team, and had come up to see the race, disagreed with Brady, but Angell, the former Michigan runner, who, after a year at Yale, was going back to finish his course at Michigan, said he was impartial now, and voted for the Yale girls.
The great problem of the early part of the day was getting something to eat. New London, if you visit it at an off season, when there isn’t a boat race on, will entertain you royally. The hotels will strike you as excellent, the food as both cheap and plentiful. But it is different on boat-race day. Then, at the hotels, they establish a line for the dining room early in the morning, and people wait for an hour or two before they can get in at all. However, no one minds minor privations of that sort.
Down by the station, crowded all day, as parties of friends united or came all together by the arriving trains, all eyes turned first to the two great observation trains. One of the things that makes the New London course the finest in the world for a boat race, is the fact that there is a railroad on each side of the river, so that two trains at once can be drawn along to provide moving grand stands for the spectators, who can thus see every stroke that is pulled in the race. There are about forty cars on each train, flat freight cars, with a section of seats, like those in the bleachers of a baseball field, built on each, and a canvas awning over the seats to protect the spectators from sun and rain, if the weather man is unkind enough to let it rain on boat-race day, which, to do him full justice, he very seldom is.
Presently these trains, with an engine at each end of them, would pull out, loaded to their utmost capacity with pretty girls and excited men, a mass of waving color, riotous in the bright sunlight, with cheers rocking them from end to end. But that was to come later. In the morning they simply served as reminders of the great race that was to come.
But it wasn’t all joy in New London. To most of those who had seen or heard of it, the sinking of the Marina was a mysterious incident, to be discussed for a few minutes, and then forgotten. But to Svenson, Barrows, and their companions it was a stunning blow, almost crushing in its effect, and utterly inexplicable. They had no difficulty in making their escape from the sinking vessel, and, safe, but bewildered and furious, had fore-gathered some time later at an obscure and dirty saloon in a low part of the town.