The oars flashed, dropped and flashed again, as the professionals swept their oars ahead. Some rods behind the trapper and Fred were rowing side by side, stroke for stroke, long, steady and strong.
“Yis, yis, I understand; but don’t ye worry, four miles is four miles. Still if yer a-gittin’ narvous we’ll lengthen out a little jest to show ’em we ain’ more’n half asleep.” So saying the old man set his comrades so long and sharply pulled a stroke that the two boats doubled their rate of speed and came up even with the boats ahead. “There now, I guess we’ll ease up a leetle, for the time to really pull ain’t come yet. I tell you, boy, that rifle is a-goin’ to stay here in the woods. There’s the Lad back there can beat us both, but he won’t try ’cause he thinks it would tickle an old man like me to win the prize. Easy, boy, easy, let ’em git ahead if they want to, the comin’ in is what decides the race.” Thus the boats rushed on their way, while the multitude watched with eager eyes the receding racers. The party of the trapper was in the ascendant, for the spurt he had made revealed the tremendous power of the man and showed that old age had not weakened his enormous strength. At last a man who stood on the edge of the boathouse called out: “They have turned the buoys; the professionals are ahead.”
“How far behind is John Norton?”
“He and the guides are four rods astern at least.”
“Where is the Lad?”
“Oh, he’s out of the race; he’s fully ten rods behind the trapper and Fred.” By this time the boats were plainly in view—the contestants were barely a mile away.
“Now, boys,” said the trapper, “the time has come for us to show the stuff that’s in us. Are ye ready for the stroke, boys?” A groan of pain interrupted the trapper. The oars of Charley were trailing—his strength had given out and his nose was bleeding profusely. “Never mind,” whispered the trapper to Fred, “you must win this race if your whole family dies—all right, long and quick now.” The young man obeyed. He threw the full force of his strength on the oars. The sudden vigor was too much for the wood; there was a crash and the guide was thrown on his side. The trapper was now thoroughly aroused. The boats were within a hundred yards of the home-line and the Lad was fully fifteen astern. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but through it a voice arose: “John Norton, now is your time, pull.”
The old man gathered himself for a supreme effort, and then occurred a catastrophe so overwhelming that it hushed the roar of the crowd. He had torn the rowlocks from the gunnels. For a moment there was silence; even the professionals intermitted a stroke; but the Lad turned his face ahead. The old man arose and stood erect in the boat. He shook the heavy oars in the air as if they had been reeds and shouted in a voice that sounded awful in its intensity: “Now, Lad, row for the sake of John Norton, and save his gray hairs from shame. Pull with every ounce of strength the Almighty has given you, or the honor of the woods is gone.”
It was worth a thousand miles of travel and a year of life to see what happened. The Lad suddenly sat erect and his stroke lengthened to the full reach of oar and arm. His boat seemed to spring into the air, it flew on the top of the water, and, as it passed the trapper, he shouted wildly, “Go it, Lad, go it, Lad, the honor of the woods be on ye! Give it to ’em, give it to ’em, ye’ll beat ’em yit, sure as judgment day.”
Except his voice, not a sound was heard. Men clutched their fists till the nails cut the skin of their palms. One of the professionals fainted unnoticed, another threw up his oars, crazed by the excitement, while the third pulled in grim desperation; but he pulled in vain, for the Lad’s boat caught him within fifty feet of the line and shot across it half a length to the front. And then there arose such a shout as had not been heard that day. “Three cheers for the Lad, three cheers for the Lad,”—and the honor of the woods was saved.