“What was that?” eagerly asked Scott Clemmons, catching at a straw of hope.
“You did not row fast enough.”
A laugh followed this, and Clemmons responded:
“Merrill crossed my bow and kept me back.”
“He did nothing of the kind.”
“He did not cross my bow?”
“Yes, he did that, and he gave you plenty of water, as every man here will testify. The act was against him, not you, for it retarded him; yet he recovered his speed and landed ahead of you. He crossed Perry’s bow also, and yet he makes no such claim as a foul.”
“I’ll admit he is a wonderful oarsman, and I said so before the race; but still I hoped to beat him.”
“You are also a superb oarsman, Clemmons, as is Perry, McNulty, and others, but Merrill is a wonder, for he came in the freshest man of the lot.”
“He ought to row fast and long, for he is a fisherman,” growled Clemmons.