Frank Merriwell's Champions: or, All in the Game. Standish Burt L.
the supremacy.
“Ready!” ran along the line.
“One, two, three – go!”
At the word, four trim, muscular forms flashed in the air, shot downward, and slipped into the depths with scarcely a splash.
“They’re off!” some one yelled.
With a waving of handkerchiefs and a fluttering of fans and umbrellas, the spectators began to cheer.
Ward Hammond and Frank Merriwell came to the surface first, with Colson and Matlock close after them. Hammond was a full yard ahead of Frank, and the latter’s friends saw that Merriwell would not have an easy task if he defeated the Glendale youth, who seemed to be able to dive and swim like a fish.
But Merriwell was not worrying over the outcome of the race. He knew that a race is not always won by a brilliant start, and that the final stretch is what tests the strength of the swimmer. So while Ward Hammond spurted and increased his lead, Merriwell swam low and easily, with his head well back on his shoulders, and without any unnecessary expenditure of muscle.
Craig Carter, who had been seated in a boat beside the landing, now pushed the boat off, and dropping the oars into the rowlocks, prepared to follow the swimmers leisurely, that a boat might be at hand in case of accident. Of course, he was one of Hammond’s most fiery henchmen, and he did not hesitate to show his partiality by shouting encouraging cries to him.
“That’s right, Ward! Give full spread to your hands and feet. Gather a little quicker, frog fashion. That’s right! Go it, old man! They can’t any of them beat you! Hurrah for the Blue Mountain boys!”
“I hope he’ll fall out of that boat and drown himself,” was Rattleton’s uncharitable wish. “He actually makes me sick!”
“His friend hasn’t won the race yet,” said Diamond, studying the swimmers with a critical eye. “Colson is a good swimmer, too, isn’t he? He’s coming right up alongside of Merriwell.”
The race was to a stake, set far enough from the shore to test the strength and wind of the swimmers, thence back to the point of starting.
Up to this stake and around it Ward Hammond led, with Merriwell second, Colson third, and Matlock closely crowding Colson.
When the stake was turned and the swimmers headed shoreward, it was seen that Hammond was fully six yards in the lead.
Craig Carter was standing up in his boat, alternately sculling and swinging the oar aloft to give emphasis to his Indian-like yells, and the excitement among the spectators perceptibly increased.
“By Jove! I’m afraid Hammond is going to beat Merry!” confessed Bart Hodge, with an uneasy shifting of his feet. “See him spurt! He goes through the water like a torpedo boat!”
“I’ll het you my bat – I mean I’ll bet you my hat – that he doesn’t!” averred Rattleton, whose faith in Merriwell’s ability was always supreme. “Now look, will you? Hurrah for Merry! Talk about your torpedo boats! That’s the stuff, Frank! Hooray! hooray! hooray!”
Rattleton crowded so near the edge of the landing that he was in danger of tumbling into the water, and there, standing on tiptoe and swinging his cap, he sent his shrill cries ringing across the surface of the lake.
Merriwell seemed still to be swimming easily, with his body well under and his head poised lightly on his shoulders, but it was observed that he was greatly increasing his speed. Not in the spurting, jerky manner of Hammond, but with a steady pull, that was bound to tell in the outcome.
The spectators noticed this, and their clamor increased. One solemn-looking man jumped to the top of a tall stump and capered like a schoolboy, while a couple of Glendale’s severest old maids, whom nobody supposed could be moved to any show of emotion by such a scene, were actually seen to hug each other and shed tears.
Inch by inch, foot by foot, and yard by yard, Frank gained on his opponent and bitter enemy. His head drew alongside of Hammond’s thrashing heels, forged up to Hammond’s side, came up to Hammond’s shoulder and neck, then passed him.
Hammond gave his antagonist a frightened glance, and tried to swim faster, seeking to regain his lost ground by another spurt. But he had seriously winded himself, and he found the feat impossible.
And still the crowd yelled, and whooped, and fluttered handkerchiefs, and thumped the benches.
Craig Carter had long ceased his insane antics. His face wore a look of anxiety.
Suddenly, as the swimmers were drawing past a point that jutted out into the lake, a dog sprang into the water and paddled toward them. It was Craig Carter’s spaniel. It recognized him as he sat in the boat, and was anxious to join him. The boat was beyond the swimmers, and the dog, in attempting to reach it, swam against Merriwell, and almost lost him his position. Frank lifted himself and gave the spaniel a heavy shove, which caused it to sink beneath the surface.
The sight threw Craig Carter into a rage. He was already in a desperate mood, and now he seemed to become furiously insane.
Merriwell was still in the lead, and again swimming. White and panting, Carter rose to his feet, lifted an oar with both hands and struck at Frank.
It was a cowardly blow, and brought cries of “Shame!” from those who witnessed it.
But it did not reach Frank. He dived like a flash, and the oar struck harmlessly on the water.
When Frank came up, he was seen to be swimming neck and neck with Ward Hammond, and the goal not a dozen yards away.
Then pandemonium again broke loose on the shore.
Inch by inch, and foot by foot, Frank again drew ahead of his antagonist. The crowd yelled like mad. A dozen men crowded to the water’s edge to take him by the hand, for they saw that he was to be the winner.
In vain Ward Hammond threshed and flailed. His wind and strength were gone.
Merriwell reached the landing three yards in the lead, and was immediately drawn out on the boards.
Then, all wet as he was, he was hoisted to the shoulders of his admirers – to the shoulders of men who loved pluck and fair play – and borne around the boathouse, while they bellowed at the top of their lungs:
“See, the conquering hero comes!”
After that there were exhibitions of fancy diving and swimming by Frank Merriwell and others, which were not taken part in by the disgruntled Hammond, however, and by only a few of his intimate friends.
Thus the swimming ended, to the entire satisfaction of those who had waited so long and so patiently for its beginning.
“And to-morrow comes that mountain climb,” said Merriwell, speaking to Colson, when they were again in the dressing-room. “I wonder if Hammond will be as palpitatingly anxious for that as he was for this swim?”
CHAPTER VIII – A FAIR GUIDE
The mountain chosen for the climb was one of the wildest and ruggedest of the Blue Ridge range. It rose just beyond Blue Mountain, whereon Hammond and his friends had their summer camp, and its dark shadows fell afternoons into the hollows and dells where clung the cabins of the poor whites who recognized the leadership of Bob Thornton.
“It’s not a pleasant feat to contemplate,” grumbled Bruce Browning, looking from the door of the cottage he occupied in company with others, and staring up at the half-naked heights that thrust themselves skyward. “It’s much prettier at a distance. I haven’t any sympathy for these fellows who form Alpine clubs, to bury themselves in snowdrifts and break their necks in crevices, when they might be staying at home, sensibly enjoying themselves.”
“I don’t doubt you’re really wishing for a rattling good chill,” laughed Sep Colson. “It would be such an excellent excuse to laze all day in that hammock.”
“Hardly that,” grunted Bruce. “A fellow might as well wish he’d break an arm to get out of the job of sawing a little wood. But, seriously, doesn’t it seem to you a great waste of energy for a mighty little return to go panting