They’ll look like all get-out!”
sang the college boys, triumphantly, as they chugged about. Their boisterous, confident voices were greeted with laughter and cheers from the shore. Soon, their well-trained, crack oarsmen would come down the river, walking easily away from the scout crew, with its probably crude substitute.
“I wonder how Red Deer got himself mixed up with those cracker jacks,” said Harry.
“Harry, what’ll they do? They can’t put Nelson in—or Burt, either—it’s—” Gordon looked imploringly into his friend’s face.
“Well, my boy,” said Mr. Danforth, clapping Harry on the shoulder, “where’s your voice? By Jove, that was a great victory! Why didn’t you cheer? Eh?”
“He’s deducing,” said Miss Crosby.
Harry turned suddenly. “Mr. Danforth,” said he, “those fellows belong to our own troop. Hanged if I know where they came from, but I—I—just can’t stand here and see them beaten after putting up a race like that.”
The girl’s eyes were fixed intently on Harry. Gordon listened, his hand trembling on the rail. Down the course came muffled cheering, as the victorious shell, with its single oarsman, was towed back to the starting line.
Then Miss Antoinette Crosby did a strange thing. She threw her arms around Mr. Danforth’s neck, and whispered to him, concluding by saying audibly, “Please, please!”
That gentleman looked sharply at Harry, but said not a word. He walked across the deck, and called below: