“Seaweed Townies!” exclaimed somebody. All wonder was at an end, and disgust now began. “Seaweed Town” was a nook of the sea where half a dozen poor houses were clustered on a rocky shore, and their inhabitants were shabby people nicknamed “Seaweed Townies.” The occupants of this boat were boys of about sixteen, lean and scraggy, with long, tangled black hair. Although not equal in size to the members of Chauncy’s crew, they had a certain wiry, tough look, and their dark eyes flashed with an eager ambition to win. The Scarlet Grays—and how brilliantly they outshone these rivals who did not indeed shine at all—hailed the advent of this new “entry” with derision.
“Arabs!” they said with a sneer; but the Seaweed Townies did not reply to them, only looking more eager, and occasionally giving their oars a nervous twitch.
Off darted the three boats at the appointed signal; while the spectators applauded, and the very maples seemed to be waving red handkerchiefs.
“Don’t they look handsome!” screamed little Miss P. Green. “Those Scarlet Grays are be—be—witching.”
“Nonsense!” said Aunt Lydia with commendable local pride. “Those little turkey gobblers hain’t got no last to ’em! Jest see our boys!”
“Our boys” certainly pulled with vigor. Chauncy was now sincerely anxious to win the laurels of the day, the arrival of the Seaweed Townies having “toned up the market.” Walter handled his oar with vigor, and Don Pedro pulled with a grim resoluteness. Who would praise the Seaweed Townies? Now and then some sympathizing fellow, or “Arab!” yelled from a boat in the river, a note of cheer; but among The Harbor populace, Jabez Wherren alone ventured a word of commendation.
“Wall, now,” said Jabez, “them little chaps from Seaweed Town do pull well. They don’t seem to have any friends, but I shouldn’t wonder—shouldn’t—wonder—”
“Wall, what?” asked his spouse, impatiently and meaningly.
“Don’t—don’t dare say,” replied Jabez, in a tone of mock humility, squinting afresh at the struggling crews.