The young harpooners stood tense and rigid as pieces of statuary, every sinew and muscle in their bodies ready for the first “strike.” The Eagles’ harpooner, Rob Blake, the leader of that patrol, was perhaps a little smaller in girth and height than Freeman Hunt, the harpooner and leader of the Hawks, but what Rob lacked in “beef,” he made up in sinuous activity. The fall sun glinted on his tough, brown flesh, as if it had been bronze. “Hard as nails” you would have said if you could have looked him over.
As the green and black “Eagle” standard, and the pink “Hawk” flag began to close in from their different points of the compass, a sharp cry went up from the onlookers.
“K-r-ee-ee-ee-ee!” shrilled the patrol cry of the Eagles from veranda, dune and beach.
Then a breathless hush fell as they waited for the first strike. The referee, in his dark-green canoe, dodged about as actively as a water bug, watching every move closely.
The crews were made up as follows:
| EAGLES. | HAWKS. |
|---|---|
| Spearsman, Rob Blake. | Spearsman, Freeman Hunt. |
| Helmsman, Merritt Crawford. | Helmsman, Dale Harding. |
| Oars: | Oars: |
| Stroke, Tubby Hopkins. | Stroke, Lem Lonsdale. |
| No. 1, Ernest Thompson. | No. 1, Fred Ingalls. |
| No. 2, Hiram Nelson. | No. 2, Grover Bell. |
| No. 3, Paul Perkins. | No. 3, Phil Speed. |
A deep-throated roar went up from the shore as Rob Blake’s harpoon glinted in the sunlight and sank quivering into the soft wood of the sturgeon. Instantly Merritt Crawford swung on his oar, bringing the bow of the boat round. But as he did so, there came another flash, and Freeman Hunt’s harpoon sank deep into the quarry, not six inches from Rob’s spear.
“Pull, you Eagles!” came a wild shout from shoreward.
“Now then, Hawks!” roared back the rival contingent.
Both crews were backing water for all they were worth, each seeking to draw the other’s harpoon out of the “sturgeon.” The harpoons were not barbed, which might have made them dangerous, and a determined pull would be likely to dislodge one.