“Ready—set——”
The shrill purl of the starter’s whistle sounded, and six lithe bodies cleaved the water. Blackie, full of anger and determination, put every ounce of his waning strength into his strokes, fighting to keep his head and time his muscles scientifically. He did not dare look around to see how the other contestants were coming, although he was aware of a sandy head driving through the water a little to his left and half a length ahead. The course seemed short, but a stiff hundred-yard swim will try the power of even a swimmer in the best of training. He headed for the line stretched between the two boats, his arms moving over his head in a steady rhythm that kept time with the beat of his legs, his face buried in cool bubbling water. He’d show them! Summoning up his last straining ounce of power, he spurted to win ahead of the swimmer to his left, and passed him just as the shadow of the life-saving boat fell upon their faces.
“Thorne wins!” came the voice of one of the judges from the boat. “Dunning second, Coombes third!”
There was an uneasy silence among the Lenape supporters, but after half a minute there rose a belated cheer from the wearers of the red arrowhead, who were disappointed that their favorite had not won, but who consoled themselves with the thought that Shawnee was still in the lead.
Blackie took his time paddling back to the dock. He did not expect congratulations for his victory; but he was now beyond the stage of caring. All he had wanted to do was to show Ken Haviland that he was game; and the taunts of the aide had given Blackie just that extra ounce of vitality that had enabled him to spurt ahead of Dunning. He climbed unassisted to the dock, and stood watching the next event, breathing deeply to get his wind in preparation for the concluding event of the meet, the two-hundred-yard swim that was the most demanding of all contests upon the grit and capabilities of the racer.
Some thirty boys were lined up for the next contest, a free-for-all marathon over a triangular course that led around two boats stationed some yards apart in front of the dock; and at the summons of the whistle there ensued a scrambling battle-royal for places in the water. Most of the bunch dropped out before the first boat was reached, but among the remaining swimmers there was a desperate contest to see who would touch the wharf first. The Lenape cohorts broke into mad cheers when they found that their entrants in this helter-skelter marathon had placed first and third, and the yells of all the spectators grew and swelled out over the water when it was found that the tallies for the last two events had brought the score to a dead tie, with 57 points for each camp.
The excitement was at fever heat as the contenders lined up for the final event of the afternoon’s sport, the two-hundred-yard swim. The entries were almost the same as for the shorter distance, except that Link had been replaced by Soapy Mullins. Dunning, somewhat crestfallen, eyed Blackie with a vengeful air, as if resolved to wipe out the memory of his previous defeat. Coombes, who had placed third in the hundred-yard event, looked pale and tired. Blackie stole a look at Ken Haviland, who was again ranged at his side, but the aide paid no attention. Blackie saw him feeling the right side of his abdomen tenderly, and thought he caught Ken making a slight grimace of pain; but the signal for ready came at that moment, and Ken straightened his body and gritted his teeth as the starter put his whistle to his lips.
Brr-r-r-r! The six racers took the water and the gruelling contest began, with two hundred pairs of eyes fastened upon their shining muscles, sleek heads, and straining bodies. The last race—the race upon which depended the camp championship of the season, the victory of the green and white or the red arrowhead! No wonder the air was filled with cheers and shouts of encouragement! Once or twice Blackie caught the sound of his own name rising from that bedlam of excited watchers. He smiled to himself, filled with a great elation. He had whipped Dunning before, and knew he could do it again. Turning his head with a jerk, he saw that Coombes was already out of the race, had dropped behind, too exhausted to continue. Beside Blackie, the speedy Dunning whipped through the water, followed by Ken Haviland and Soapy Mullins and closely pursued by Lipsky. It was to be a close race, in spite of the distance.
Onward Blackie Thorne churned his way, tossing diamond-like drops from his hair as he surged through the water. Ahead he could see the dipping life-boats that marked the end of the journey. Tie score—if he nosed Dunning out for first place, it was almost a sure thing that one of the other Lenape contenders would finish ahead of the slow-going Lipsky, and end the meet with a slender lead of two points that would, however, give Lenape the day.
Ken Haviland was shooting ahead, and was now close on the flailing legs of Dunning. Blackie, with his eyes on the goal, was slowly but surely increasing his half-length lead over the Shawnee favorite, when he heard a low cry that made him turn his head and halt his even stroke.