Harvard Stories: Sketches of the Undergraduate

by Waldron Kintzing Post

"Was that the best you could do for Alma Mater?" said Holworthy. "What a pity you couldn't succeed in putting such laurels on her brow!"

"There, Gray, take that," chuckled Stoughton; "that is the time Pegasus fell down and got his neck stepped on."

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, you hot-headed little poet," put in Hudson, gravely. "How can you speak so thoughtlessly, even when sitting right beside Holworthy, the Superb? Can you, a member of the Oldest and Greatest take such a childish interest in a paltry boat-race?"

"You are forgetting all about the atmosphere, and the traditions, and all that sort of game," added Randolph. "What difference does it make to us whether we win or lose? Remember the true glories and blessings of our ancient University."

"For instance," drawled Rattleton, "whether we want to celebrate or console ourselves, we have all the royal crimson juices with which to do it, whereas those poor Elis can't find a blue drink to save their souls."

"Jove! I never thought of that. Glad I didn't go to Yale, aren't you, Gray?" exclaimed Stoughton.

"I don't believe the color of their booze troubles them much, as long as we pay for it," reasoned Burleigh. "Still, that is the proper spirit and the right way to look at these comparative collegiate advantages. Isn't it, Gray?"

"If you chaps think you can get a rise out of me," answered Gray to all this, "you are mistaken; but for your own sakes you had better not try to be so funny in public. As for you, Hol, there is no use at all in your trying to play the lofty indifferent. You are as much excited as any man; you look as if you were going to row the whole thing yourself. I have been watching you biting your knuckles and clenching your fist and staring over at——"

He was interrupted by a great shout, and everybody jumped to his feet. Out of the boat-house opposite, came the long shell borne by the Crimson eight. As they put it in the water another shout went up, and a volley of cheers, for at that moment the Yale crew shot round the point from Gale's Ferry, with a beautiful snap and dash, and "let her run" in front of the train. They were not kept waiting long for the Cambridge men got quickly into their boat and came swinging across, showing but one crimson back until they turned. There was perfect precision and splendid power in their sweep. There were five men in the boat who had never pulled an oar in the four-mile race, but they were all good ones. Four had rowed on their class crews; the fifth, though a Freshman, had taken hold wonderfully, had a magnificent physique, and had come up with a good reputation from St. Paul's. And there was Dane Austin, L.S., at stroke, the hero of four 'Varsity races, and behind him at 7, old Billy Bender, the iron captain who, with all luck against him, had made a winning crew before, and certainly must have done so this year with such material. These two could surely "hit up" the stroke indefinitely, and in the middle of the boat towered Charlie Rivers, looking as if he could do all his own share and that of the three men behind him, if need might be.

Now both crews backed up to the starting boats, and off came the jerseys. They were right opposite the car. "Attention!" "Ready!" Rivers leaned forward and buried his blade alongside of Yale for his last chance. He had never won. Holworthy, bent almost double, gripping his chin in his hand, watched that statue. He could see no expression whatever in the sunburned profile and the motionless eye fixed on the neck before it. He wondered,—"Row!" He saw the oar bend so that his heart stopped for a moment in the fear that the spruce would break. A mingled roar that sounded like "Yayavard!" then silence so that he could hear the clear, cool tones of Varnum, the coxswain. He saw the mighty shoulders heave back, and swing forward again in one motion, the arms rigid as steel pistons. Again, with not a movement of the arms. "Row!" A third time, and this time the great muscle leaped up and the arm was bent until the oar butt touched the chest, then shot out again like a flash, "Row! That's good; steady, now hold it." The roar burst out again, and this time it sounded clear enough. Har—ar—vard! Holworthy took his eyes from his chum and looked at the whole picture. The little red coxswain was even with No. 3 in the Yale boat! It had been a perfect racing start; those three tremendous lightning strokes had shot the Harvard eight nearly half a length ahead of their rivals. There was no question as to which were the stronger men, but strength is the least thing of all that wins a boat-race. After this first leap the Yale crew hung right where it was, and would not fall clear of the Crimson oars. At the mile flag Harvard had not increased her lead perceptibly.