With Mr. Morton between her and Babe, and John at the other end of the group, there was nothing for Betty to do but wait patiently for another chance to remonstrate with “those silly children.” For she quite agreed with them that it would be very foolish indeed to delay telling Mr. Morton any longer. He would naturally feel hurt to think that John had let his friends and Babe’s into the secret, but had kept his father outside the charmed circle of intimates. It would put them back upon the old footing of distrust and misunderstanding.
It seemed as if everybody in London was in a boat on the river that afternoon, or hanging over one of the bridges, or waving energetically from one of the banks. All along the course these were black with people, and beside them, crowded boats fairly jostled one another at anchor. “The Siren” steamed up almost to the finish line before she came to her allotted station, and John explained, on Billy Benson’s authority, that even if they couldn’t see the actual finish, they could be practically certain that whoever had the lead here would win the race.
“It’s simply got to be Harvard,” said Babbie vigorously, and then suddenly noticing that outside of their own party everybody on board was wearing the English colors, she laughed. “I suppose we ought to be willing to be disappointed, because there aren’t so many of us—only a few hundreds in all these millions of English people.”
“If the Harvard crew has come all this way only to lose,” began Mr. Morton testily, and then looked at Betty and laughed. “That’s just like me, isn’t it, Miss B. A.? Always looking on the dark side of things, eh? Always ranting about things going wrong?”
Betty laughed and her eyes danced mischievously as she looked from Babe to John. “Never mind the race,” she began impulsively. If she told, she certainly had a right to choose her own time. “We’ve got something to tell you that will make you forget there is a race. Whether or not the Harvard crew wins, the Harvard man you are most interested in has won the biggest kind of a race—no, not a race exactly,”—Betty stumbled over her metaphors,—“but, well, the thing he wanted.”
“The Harvard man I’m most interested in,” repeated Mr. Morton blankly. “That’s John. What’s he won?”
“This is an awfully public place,” Betty murmured. “Lean over and I’ll whisper it.”
There was a breathless moment while Jasper J. Morton blinked hard, then looked at John for confirmation of the news, and having received a friendly little nod in answer, turned to Babe with a smile on his grim face.
“Well, I can certainly congratulate John,” he said, “and from the reports I’ve had lately I can congratulate myself on John’s having got hold of just the right person to manage him and keep him up to the mark, so if you’re satisfied I guess it’s all right. And I hope you’ll never regret it.”
“I shan’t,” said Babe blithely.