Dick Randall, the Young Athlete

by Ellery H. Clark

The time before the race dragged away somehow, and shortly before three, the launch, with Allen, Brewster, Lindsay and Dick on board, came to a halt, with a dozen other craft, off the starting buoys, marking the beginning of the two-mile course. It was the perfection of racing weather, the water calm and smooth as a mirror, yet with the sky overcast, so as to temper the heat of the sun. One by one the crews came paddling out from the big boat-house on the shore. First came Hopevale, their blue-bladed oars dipping prettily together, and the blue cap on their coxswain's head making them easy to distinguish from the others. After them came Clinton, the winners of the previous year, a rangy, speedy-looking crew, their red and black jerseys looming up more prominently than the quieter colors of their rivals. And last of all, their own boat left the shore, Blagden at bow, Selfridge at two, "Big" Smith at three, and Putnam at stroke. Little "Skeeter" Brown, the eighty-pound coxswain, sat in the stern, megaphone strapped around his head, his big, long-visored crimson jockey cap pulled down about his ears.

The referee's launch tooted a warning blast. The three crews increased their speed a trifle, and one by one took up their positions, Hopevale on the outside, Clinton in the middle, Fenton nearest the boat-house shore. The coxswains gripped the starting-lines, the referee talked briefly to the three captains in turn, and then, backing his launch, made ready to give the signal for the start. It was a pretty sight: the rival crews, tense and ready, awaiting the word; the little fleet of pleasure craft which was to follow in their wake; on shore the eager enthusiasts who were to pursue them on bicycles or in motors along the bank. And Dick, as he gazed around him, could not but think of that other crowd, waiting so eagerly at the finish, two miles away, and turning the sober old river into a garden of variegated color, with the flags and ribbons of the different schools.

The referee's right arm was outlined in silhouette against the sky. A moment's silence and then the pistol cracked, the little wreath of smoke curled upward, and the twelve oars caught the water like one. A tooting of whistles, a medley of shouts and cheers; the race was on.

The boys stood well forward, as the bow of their launch cut through the water, their eyes fixed on the three crews, as they shot away down stream. Clinton had the lead, that was already evident. They had gained it in the first half-dozen strokes, and had increased it, first to a quarter length, then to a half, Hopevale and Fenton fighting, bow and bow, for second place. For a quarter-mile they kept the same positions, and then, all at once, Hopevale--the crew the boys had rated as the least dangerous--took a sudden spurt. Quickening their stroke perceptibly, they drew away from Fenton, then came even with Clinton, and finally were a clear length in the lead. "Look at 'em!" cried Lindsay. "I didn't know they could row like that. Look at 'em go!"

Allen eyed them critically. Their boat did not move as smoothly as the others; there was a perceptible roll from side to side; there was some splashing by bow and two; yet for all that, the crew was made up of big, strong oarsmen, and despite their evident lack of form, they drove their shell ahead at a tremendous pace. But Allen shook his head. "They won't last," he said. "They'll be rowed out at a mile."

Dick hastened to dissent. "I don't believe it, Harry," he replied. "A two-mile race isn't like a four-mile. I think they can hold that pace, and if they do, they'll win. Look at 'em 'dig. There! There goes Clinton after 'em! Why doesn't Jim hit 'er up, too? There! Now he's quickened. Oh, good boy, Jim! That's the stuff! Soak it to 'em!"

He was shouting as if he fancied Putnam could hear every word he said, unmindful of the fact that every one else around him was shouting as well. Hopevale had drawn away still more, and then, as a half-length of open water showed between them and Clinton, the Clinton crew had at last begun to quicken in their turn. Slowly they drew up on the leaders, and then, just as Dick had begun his yells of encouragement, for the first time Putnam had raised his stroke, and the three boats passed the mile-post with Hopevale a length ahead, and Clinton a half-length in front of the Fenton crew.

For another quarter-mile there was practically no change. Brewster began to worry. "Why doesn't Jim spurt?" he cried. "If Hopevale keeps it up, they win. It's only a quarter-mile to the turn."

Sure enough, they could see, ahead of them, the bend that marked the last half-mile of the course. Yet still Putnam did not quicken; in fact, he dropped back a trifle, and the boys' hearts sank like lead. Only Dick, remembering what Putnam had said to him that morning, kept repeating to himself, "The last half-mile; the last half-mile."

And now, into the swarm of boats along the banks, into the noise and din of the crowds, the three crews steered around the bend, and squared away for home. The race between Clinton and Hopevale was so close and pretty to watch that for a moment the boys had taken their eyes off their own crew; and then, suddenly, Dick began shouting like a maniac, "Oh, Jim, give it to 'em! That's the boy, Jim! Give it to 'em! That's the boy!"