The instant Merriwell’s canoe shot away from the Point, however, he could be seen to buckle to his work in masterly style. First he overhauled Lenaway, and then passed him with comparative ease.
Lenaway, realizing that the race undoubtedly lay between Merriwell and Bleeker, strove to take what honors he could away from Clancy and Ballard. Halfway between the Point and the finish line, Ballard snapped his paddle.
“How’s that for luck?” he shouted ruefully, as Clancy and Lenaway dashed on prow to prow. “Go it, Reddy! It’s up to you and Chip, now, to show these Gold Hillers what we can do.”
Bleeker, a prime fellow and trained to the minute, realized that he had the fight of his life on his hands if he was to win against Merriwell. He made swift demand upon all his reserve strength, and his muscles answered superbly. But the strain of the contest was telling upon him—mainly because he had worked too hard on the first half of the course.
Merriwell was creeping up on the other canoe, slowly yet steadily and relentlessly. And the remarkable part of his work was that the tension of those exciting moments was not evident in a single move he made. With easy, almost careless, grace he dipped his blade, and his light craft plunged onward like a well-trained thoroughbred. It was evident to all that Merriwell was a “stayer,” and that Bleeker had about shot his bolt.
Frank was somewhat surprised at Bleeker, for on the preceding day he and Clancy had given the Gold Hill lads an object lesson in husbanding resources for the home stretch and not being too free with them at the beginning. Bleeker should have profited by that experience.
Little by little Merry drew up abreast of Bleeker. The latter’s face was set and there was a strained look about it which proved how hard he was driving himself.
When Frank nosed on into the lead, a roar went up from the bank. Blunt was rooting for Merry, and cheering with all his range ardor and enthusiasm. The cowboy had a whole-souled admiration for the Eastern lad, and believed that no one of his age or inches could beat him at any sport.
“Whoop!” he bellowed, jumping around on the bank in his drenched and abbreviated costume. “Keep your eye on my pard, will you? Throw up your hands, Bleek! It’s as good as over.”
“Never say die, Bleek!” shouted a Gold Hiller across the water. “Keep at it, old man! Come ahead, come ahead!”