A mile up the lake the stake-boat was anchored. In it was one of the judges, who reclined at his ease on a couch of cushions with an awning over him to keep off the sun. The other judge was Mr. Hastings, who stood on the wharf to act as starter. The referee’s barge, propelled by six of the best oarsmen that could be found among the guides, lay off the wharf, and the police-boats had already cleared the course.
“All you young gentlemen who are to compete in this race draw a number as you pass, and station yourselves accordingly,” said Mr. Hastings, who held a small tin box above his head so that the contestants could not look into it and pick a number instead of taking it at random. “Go down as far as the leaning tree so as to get a good start, and fill away at the sound of the bugle, No. 1 taking the outside.”
The first event was a sailing race—two miles with a turn. Those who had entered for it drew a number from the box, lingered a moment to look at the swinging silver pitcher and gold-lined goblets, which, with a tray to hold them, were to go to the boy who sent his canoe first across the line on the home stretch, and then ran out to launch their canoes and hoist their sails. There were ten starters, and they made a pretty picture as they came up the lake before the fresh breeze that was then blowing, and dashed across the imaginary line that marked the beginning of the course. Another blast from the bugle warned them that it was a “go,” and the race was begun.
The sound of the bugle seemed to excite every body—the people on shore as well as the boys in the boats, who crowded their cranky little crafts until it looked as if some of them must certainly go over. There were several of Prime’s friends among the contestants, and Joe and his two chums wondered if any one of them had been “booked” to come out ahead in this particular race. They saw nothing to indicate it. There was no attempt to foul the boy who seemed likely to win, and indeed there was no chance for any such proceeding. The referee’s barge easily kept abreast of the racers, and the man in the stake-boat kept his glass directed toward them from the start. There was some crowding and confusion at the turn, and some of the little vessels came dangerously near to one another; but their crews made desperate efforts to clear themselves, some because they knew they were closely watched, and others because they were determined to win fairly or not at all, and the race was not interrupted. It was a close and exciting struggle, and the boy who brought his Rice Laker first across the line was fairly entitled to the silver pitcher.
“That was a splendid race,” exclaimed Joe Wayring, as the contestants, after beaching their canoes, came into the boat-house to listen to the congratulations, or to receive the sympathy of their friends. “The paddle race comes off now, and I hope that those of us who take part in it will make as good a showing as you did.”
While Joe was talking in this way, Ned Stewart, one of the boys who had just been defeated, drew a few of his friends around him in a remote corner of the boat-house by intimating to them in a mysterious way that he had something of importance to say to them.
“Look here, Bigden,” said Ned, in an excited whisper. “I believe it is understood that some of us are to foul Wayring or any fellow in his crowd who stands a chance of winning, and give Noble a chance to carry off the honors of the paddle race?”
“I believe you did make some such arrangement as that,” replied Tom, indifferently. “But if my memory serves me, you did not consult me in regard to it.”
These words produced the utmost consternation among the boys in the corner.
“Are you going back from your word?” cried Noble, as soon as he could speak.