“Where has he gone—how?” the other asked eagerly, carried away by the speaker’s intensity.
The paddle dipped in water for two liquid beats before he answered, and then it was with an evident effort for self-control. “It makes me so hot I can hardly talk about it,” he brought out in repressed tones. “But you’re a good sport, and square and all that—you’ll appreciate how we feel. Last night at the training table the captain had a telegram and a special delivery. His father has been ill, and his business has all gone wrong, and he’s—ruined. Just plain that. And when they were certain of it, yesterday, he got a lot worse at the news, and they were alarmed and sent for Carl. And the money’s all lost, you see, so he can’t come back. It’s a darned shame!” the lad brought out, losing his grip on himself again. “I’d like to have that man, that captain of industry, that robber baron, who’s got Carl down and out, at the end of my fist”—the great young hand shot out, clinched. “It’s Marcus Trefethen—the Marcus Trefethen, you know—and if I got within ten feet of him I’d beat his bloomin’ brains out.” The man in the bow, eight feet away, gazed thoughtfully at the speaker.
The canoe had worked up the lake; far away beyond the bridge was a stir as if those there could see the first crews of the first race coming; dozens of boats, gay with boys and girls and talk and laughter, lay below, beyond them, but at the turn where the canoe floated it was quiet. There was deep silence.
“It’s all his work. He’s a thieving, cold-blooded monopolist,” the boy went on angrily. “He doesn’t care how much flesh and blood he chops into hash to feed to his great fortune. He doesn’t care that Carl’s father’s railroad stands for forty years’ solid, honest work. He doesn’t care that wrecking it is going to kill Mr. Ruthven—that Carl’s got to give up his career and grind for bread and butter—all that’s nothing.”
The vehement voice stopped; the boy was out of breath, and the man felt a necessity to put in a word. “There are usually two sides,” he said. “Possibly Trefethen may not be free to stop the workings of a great affair—there are many men concerned in such a business. And perhaps he may not entirely realize the suffering entailed.” He wondered at his own tone, at his desire to conciliate. Why should he care how a college student judged his conduct? But he cared.
The boy’s eyes, gazing up the course, questioned the distance. His big shoulders stiffened to alertness. “They’re coming,” he announced, and a twist of the paddle set the boat sidewise so that Trefethen also could see. “Ginger, they’re coming fast! It’s the Columbia freshmen against ours—golly, I hope we smear ’em! We lead—see—gosh, we’ve got a good lead!”
Garnished with strange interjections, the pleasant, well-bred young voice went on in staccato sentences, and Trefethen, still thunderstruck by the bolt that had been launched from the blue at him and all his works, watched the play of excitement on the unconscious face. The clear eyes followed keenly every movement of the rapidly nearing crews; they glowed with joy as the Yale boat forged ahead; they darkened tragically as the rival shell crawled up on it. It was a spirited scene and the impersonal rush of interest all about him carried the man out of himself and into the bright flood of enthusiasm. Suddenly he found himself cheering madly, waving his hat as the blue coxswain, megaphone strapped to his mouth, howled hoarse encouragement to his men—as the crew of Yale swept past and first beyond the finish stakes. How glad the boy was—and how glad he himself was! When had he had such a day?
“Hooray for Yale!”
He shouted, and laughed as he heard his own voice. He caught a long breath and drew in a mouthful of sentiments—sport—fellow-feeling—the game played fairly—he nearly choked with the unfamiliar taste—but he liked it.
The first event was finished. “Rain,” young Elliot announced, turning up his face. “We’ll put in under the bridge till it’s over. I’ll hurry, so we’ll get there before the holy-poly.”