As a matter of fact this little trick had given the Hurons the best of the start, the quick short strokes getting their boat under full headway before the others. But their advantage was short-lived, and it could be seen that as the turning buoys were approached they were last.
“Wonder if they’ll spring something new on the turn,” muttered Billy, leaning forward until he threatened to upset his canoe. “Ah, I thought so!”
The Delawares had reached the turn first with the Senecas a close second and the Algonquins third, but the leaders had not fairly straightened out for home when the Hurons turned their buoy as if on a pivot and actually had the lead.
In silence the spectators watched the flashing blades draw up the course. It was anybody’s race, a “heart-breaker,” as Spud Ely expressed it. Like clockwork the blades rose and fell. The Algonquins were using a long body swing. The Senecas swung their shoulders only, and their stroke was shorter and faster. The Hurons had dropped a little behind, but between the three leaders there was little to choose.
“It’s quite primeval, isn’t it?” said Mr. Upton as he returned the binoculars which Mr. Harrison had loaned him.
“That just expresses it,” replied the latter as pandemonium broke loose in shrill yells from the four tribes urging on their crews. “The forest setting, the Indian craft—it’s all like a picture out of early history.”
The voices of the captains could now be heard calling for the final spurt. The stroke in all four boats became terrific as, with heads bent, hanging far over the sides, the paddlers drove their blades through the water, recovered and drove them again, almost faster than the eye could follow. Ten yards from the finish the Senecas, paddling in perfect form, seemed fairly to lift their boat from the water. It was magnificent, and as they shot over the line, winners by a scant quarter length, all four tribes joined in giving them the Woodcraft yell.
The Algonquins were second, beating the Delawares by a scant half length. The score was tied.
The single event was next, and in this both Walter and Hal Harrison were entered. It was an eighth of a mile straight away. This event was confined to the younger boys, and Walter felt that he had an even chance for place, though Tobey of the Hurons was generally picked to win. Harrison was a dark horse. No one knew much about his paddling save his chief, who had coached him in private, and was very chary of his opinion to anxious inquirers.
“I’m going to beat you, Walt,” said Hal, as they paddled down to the starting line.