“Now you’re coming!” screeched Ballard. “Keep that up, Chip, and you’ll pass the other canoe and leave it out of sight!”
“Don’t lose your nerve, Bleek!” shouted the Gold Hillers. “Crack your backs! Pull, I tell you! For the honor of Gold Hill, you junipers! For the love of Mike, don’t let this chance get away from you!”
“Gold Hill winners, hump, you sinners!”
It was evident to Frank, however, that Bleeker and Hotchkiss had put the best of their energy into the first half of the race. The wise precaution of husbanding their muscle for the wind-up had not appealed to them. They had wanted a good lead at the start-off—and were probably hoping that the lead could not be overcome.
Yard by yard Merry and Clancy overhauled the canoe ahead. Every thrust of the paddles, sturdy and strong and swift, carried the rear craft forward for a gain. Halfway to the point the canoes were side by side.
Bleeker and Hotchkiss had no breath nor inclination for joshing. Their faces were white and set, and their arms knotted at the biceps with the strain they put upon their dipping blades. Every nerve was stretched to the breaking point.
It was a good race, a splendid race. No matter which canoe won, the joy of those fleeting moments as they came down the homestretch would be happily remembered by victor and vanquished.
Bleeker and Hotchkiss must have realized how their opponents had been playing the game. They had played it squarely, too, and had calmly watched their rivals lead in the first half of the race. Now, at last, Bleeker and his canoe mate understood that they were facing a crisis, and that only heartbreaking work could save the day.
They labored so well, for a considerable distance, the canoes continued to remain side by side.
“Want us to wait for you, Bleek?” called Clancy.