A Sailor in Spite of Himself

by Harry Castlemon

"Don't let that distress you," replied Johnny. "From this time forward no one shall ever hear your name pronounced by me. I shall take no more notice of you and the rest who have a hand in this mean business than if you did not exist."

"I say," suddenly exclaimed one of Johnny's companions, all of whom had listened in silence to this conversation, "Sprague would never row in that boat if he knew what has been going on."

"That's a fact," exclaimed Johnny, an idea striking him. "Let's go over there and stop the whole thing."

"Oh, it is of no use; you can't do it," drawled Simpson. "There they come now."

Five o'clock, the time set for the race, had arrived, and those of the spectators who had come out in boats to obtain a fair view of the contest were beginning to grow restless, and to cast frequent and impatient glances toward the academy grounds. Even as Simpson spoke there was a commotion among the crowd gathered about one of the boat-houses on the beach, the door flew open, and a light shell, propelled by four boys dressed in blue, darted out and moved rapidly up the bay toward the starting-point. It was the Mist. The Blues were on the alert, and the moment their favorites came in sight they were greeted with a clapping of hands, waving of handkerchiefs and prolonged cheers.

While the Mist was taking her position alongside the tug where stood one of the professors who was to act as starter, her rival, the Zephyr, came in sight, her crew pulling a long, sweeping stroke, and feathering their oars as neatly as old men-of-war men selected to row the captain's gig. Then another and louder uproar arose among the spectators, and continued until the Zephyr came up alongside the Mist and the starter stepped into view. While he was getting the boats into position, and giving the crews their final instructions, we will glance rapidly at some scraps of the history of two of the contestants who have an important part to play in our story.

First in meanness, treachery, and almost everything else that is bad, comes Gus Layton, and so we will devote our attention to him. He is, as we have said, Bob's own cousin, a fact that has given rise to much doubtful speculation in the minds of the students, for they do not see how two boys, so widely different in dispositions, tastes and habits, can possibly be connected by ties of blood. He is a cross, sullen-looking boy, with a hooked nose, a low, retreating forehead, and an oily, insinuating manner, which, while it draws some toward him, repels a great many more. He is too lazy to study, and consequently, although he is sixteen years of age, he is in one of the lowest classes in school. He pulls a good oar, is a passable gymnast and ball-player, shows a wonderful faculty for shirking hard work, displays cunning in getting himself out of the numerous scrapes he falls into, and these are about all the accomplishments he possesses.

During the lifetime of Mr. Nellis, Bob's father, Gus had been a sort of protégé of that gentleman, who bestowed on him more care and attention than his own father did. By placing him at the academy Mr. Nellis gave him every advantage for fitting himself for usefulness in after life; and, more than that, he took care to neglect nothing which he thought would add to his comfort and pleasure. Was Bob presented with a new shell, a sailboat, a uniform, or a supply of pocket-money, the same boat which brought them to Elmwood brought a like supply for Gus Layton. Was Bob sent off during the long summer vacation to ramble among the hills of New England, or to fish in the trout streams of the Adirondacks, Gus was never compelled to remain behind. One would suppose that under such circumstances Gus would have been a happy boy, and that he would have felt grateful to the uncle, and that, if he had no affection for his cousin, he would at least have treated him civilly in return for his father's kindness and liberality; but such was not the case. His jealousy made him morose, cross and fretful, and he despised and hated his cousin from the bottom of his heart.

And was this feeling reciprocated by Bob? Not at all. Although, to quote from the students, he did not take much stock in his cousin, he always treated him kindly, and was as cordial and friendly with him as Gus would permit him to be.

Bob's father, even after the war, was looked upon as the wealthiest man in Clifton; but since his death, which occurred a few months previous to the beginning of our story, it had been whispered about that he had but little property, and that little had been willed to his brother-in-law, Mr. Layton, no provision having been made for Bob, who was left as his uncle's ward. Many who had refused to believe this story at first were beginning to put some faith in it now, for Mr. Layton's refusal to allow Bob to purchase a new shell—a thing his father never would have done—and the advice he had of late so often given him that it was high time he was paying less attention to his boating and more to his studies, as he might at no distant day be obliged to earn his bread before he could eat it, made it evident that there was some foundation for the reports that had got abroad. Bob did not know what to make of the situation, and was only waiting for the close of the school year to have a plain talk with his uncle. He wanted to know just where he stood.