Many of the spectators saw the leveling of the weapon. Cries of "Coward!" and "Shame!" and "Stop him!" went up from a hundred throats.
Mr. Merton, watching breathlessly, saw the glimmering revolver, and something very like a sob rushed through his lips as he bowed his head. What those who saw felt for his son, he felt for him—and for himself.
Before Merton could press the trigger, Halloran turned partly around.
"You're mad!" shouted Halloran, gripping Merton's wrist with a deft hand and shoving the point of the revolver high in the air.
Unaware of his narrow escape, the king of the motor boys flung the Sprite onward to victory.
A good half-length ahead of the Dart, Matt and his boat crossed the finish line—regaining the De Lancey cup for the Yahara Club, winning the race for George Lorry and gaining untold honors for himself.
The lake went wild; and the enthusiasm spilled over its edges and ran riot along the shores. Steam launches tooted their sirens, and motor boats emptied their compressed air tanks through their toy whistles; the band played, but there was so much other noise that it was not heard. The Yaharas and their partisans went wild.
Somewhere in that jumble of humanity was Newt Higgins, adding his joyful clamor to the roar of delight; and somewhere, also, was the doctor, letting off the steam of his pent-up excitement.
But there was one man on the stake boat whose heart was heavy, who had no word for any one but his wife. To her he offered his arm.
"Come," said he, in a stifled voice, "this is no place for us. Let us go."