Bleeker was fighting gamely. He was not the lad to quit because the tide of battle was running against him. By an effort as remarkable as it was unexpected, he dug down into an underlying stratum of power and hurled his canoe onward until it was again nose to nose with Merriwell’s.
Frank’s admiration for his plucky rival was great. To win over such a true sportsman would be a victory to be highly prized.
And Frank was doing his best. If Bleeker’s sudden access of strength held out, Frank might be only second at the swimming float where the race was to end.
“Go to it, Chip!” yelled a voice which had not been heard before in all that riot of noise from the river bank. “You’re generally first at the last of it, mainly because you never get rattled by being last at the beginning. Now’s the time to make your showing!”
A thrill shot through Merriwell as he heard that particular voice. He was wondering a little, too, as to how the owner of that voice happened to be at the Gold Hill camp. Just then, however, he had no attention to spare from his immediate work.
Bleeker’s spurt did not last. He had been too prodigal of his strength. His canoe began dropping off, and Merriwell came abreast of the float half a length in the lead.
“Hoop-a-la!” shouted Barzy Blunt, cutting a few cowboy capers on the bank. “What did I tell you, eh? Hurrah for Chip—a chip of the old block if there ever was one.”
Ballard, working his way to the shore with what was left of his paddle, likewise exulted in his chum’s victory. Clancy, reaching the float just ahead of Lenaway, joined in the cheering.
Bleeker, although breathless with his efforts, managed to get his canoe alongside Merriwell’s.
“Put it there, Chip,” he laughed, reaching out his hand. “You gave me the finest bit of fun I’ve had in many a day.”