“Back water, Eagles!” yelled Merritt, as the Hawks came driving down upon the quarry. Hunt’s sinewy form stood erect and tensile for a second, then down drove his arm with every ounce of muscular effort of which he was capable.
“Good boy!” shouted the impartial referee.
The leader of the Hawks had sunk his weapon fully as far into the floating target as had Rob.
“Now for the tug of war,” muttered Holmes, as the two boats drew apart, both harpoon-ropes stretching taut as violin strings. Suddenly Rob almost toppled backward as the strain on the Eagles’ boat was quickly released and she shot forward. His harpoon had pulled out. It had not been lodged deeply enough to resist the strain. On the other hand, Hunt’s weapon seemed to be somewhat wobbly poised. Evidently, the tugging had weakened its grip.
But the Hawks paid no attention to this. Nor indeed could they do anything to repair it without breaking the rules. Instead, they darted off at top speed for the shore. A mighty, ear-splitting roar went up as it was seen that the Hawk standard was for the second time, apparently, victorious.
“It’s two out of three, fellows! We win!” Hunt exclaimed, as his boat shot through the water.
But in the meantime, the Eagles had not been idle. Rob had hauled in his dripping line and now stood once more ready for action. Behind him Tubby was hitting up a terrific stroke. The Eagles’ boat fairly flew in pursuit of the captors of the trophy.
“It’s now or never,” thought Rob, as at twenty feet or more he decided to cast. Another second and it would be too late. With every effort he could muster, the lad launched his harpoon, aiming, not at the body of the fish, but at the Hawks’ weapon.
“He’s done it!” went up a shout of exultation from the Eagles’ rooters, as for the second time that day Rob’s harpoon dislodged his opponent’s spear.
“Confound the luck!” grated out Hunt, as he saw the victory torn from his grasp, as it were. His groan of dismay was echoed by every one in the Hawks’ boat.