“Your assailants—where are they?” demanded Hodge.
“You’ll find them scattered around here,” answered Frank, as, with one hand in his pocket, he made a gentle, sweeping gesture with the other.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
BEFORE THE RACE.
The day of the spring regatta at Lake Whitney arrived at last, and a perfect day it was—mild, sunny, balmy, and sweet. It seems that the sun, by some perennial contract, always shines on this day of days at New Haven. The trees were putting out their bright green leaves, and there was an odor of sweetness, like the breath of spring, in the air.
The lake was almost as smooth as a mirror. Near the shores there were no ripples. Out in the middle of the lake a tiny breeze stirred the water and made it take on a deeper blue.
A vast crowd had gathered and lined the shore of the lake to witness this contest between picked crews from the four classes. Men were there—men of all ages—fathers, brothers, and sons.
But pause a moment to observe the pretty girls! Don’t you know that New Haven on any kind of a fête day seems to be the Mecca of pretty girls? One finds himself wondering where they all come from. It seems that some one with an eye to artistic beauty of varying styles must have traveled over the country, gathering up all the pretty girls to be found, and then rushed them on to New Haven.
The dresses of the ladies made the crowd lively with touches of color. Of course, they were disporting the colors of the various classes.
Yale men could be told from visitors and townies. They were discussing the probable result of the race. The Chickering set had found a comfortable and sightly spot, and there they were gathered in a body, waiting for the excitement to begin.
“Weally, felloth,” said Lew Veazie, removing the head of his cane from his mouth in order to speak, “I believe the juniorth will win thith wace.”