The inner side of the course was lined with canoes and rowboats, and even Pee-wee’s ship, the Hop-toad, had been dislodged and floated to the cord line and anchored. A group of scouts upon it cheered themselves hoarse. Goldenrod Cove was filled with canoes. But the preferable stand was at the float where the race began and would end. Here a great throng waited, and on its outskirts scouts sprawled upon the grass, perched upon the roofs of shacks, and crowded on the diving-board till it almost broke with their weight. Here the judges waited. Here the string was stretched low across the course to be snapped asunder by the gliding bow of the victor. Across the course, at intervals, scout officials rested on their oars and waited, watchful for violations of the rules.
The green canoe of the red-headed scout crept ahead a yard—two yards—three yards. Connie strained every muscle and, in his apprehension as the distance between the canoes widened, he fell to using shorter strokes. The shorter stroke seems to keep time with the beating heart; it looks like speed and feels like speed; it is hustling. It is hard for the amateur to believe that calmness and the long, mechanically steady stroke, are the only things to depend on.
“Make your stroke longer, not shorter whatever you do,” said Simpson.
“I’ll take care of it,” said Connie, breathing heavily.
Simpson caught the rebuke and sat silent, watching apprehensively. Connie seemed to think that his speed would be proportioned to his frantic exertion and he was surprised to see the distance between the two canoes widening. His spectacular efforts were received with applause for action is what the multitude likes, and that strengthened Connie’s confidence in his method, which was no method at all. He gained a little (for a spurt will always accomplish that) but he lost in fatigue what he gained in distance.
“Don’t look at him,” Simpson pled anxiously. “It would be better if you were rowing, then you couldn’t see him. Bend way forward, reach out your lower hand—”
“Who’s doing this?” Connie panted. “Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t you—you—know what you’re—you’re here for?”
The look of hurt pride on Simpson’s face turned to one of grim disgust and accusation. He saw the green canoe a couple of lengths ahead, and saw flags waving, heard the deafening cheers all about him. He was not shy or fearful now.
“Can’t you guess what I’m here for?” he said, between his teeth. “It’s so that the kid’s troop will win. It’s because I knew you’d go to pieces. Don’t look at the crowd, you fool! Bend forward—far—”
“I—I can’t,” Connie panted, releasing one hand long enough to press his side. The fatal kink had come, as it is pretty sure to do in erratic striving combined with frantic fear and excitement.