Left to Themselves: Being the Ordeal of Philip and Gerald. Edward Prime-Stevenson
“Yes; come right along,” Mr. Marcy said, taking Gerald’s hand. They hurried down to the rear door together.
“Hurrah! there’s Mr. Marcy,” was the exclamation, as they were allowed to step in. The six boys, Philip and Davidson foremost, were already in full rig and busy over the long shell just about to be easily deposited in the water by the side of the float. Mr. Marcy and a couple of his friends saw this feat accomplished safely. Others of the barge-party walked in. The excitement became general. All the oarsmen talked at once, gave opinions of the state of the water, bewildered Mr. Lorraine or Mr. Marcy with questions, and hurried about the dim little boat-house to attend to the usual last things and one.
“Well, Frank, what do you think?” inquired Gerald of Davidson, with a face of almost painful interest as he glanced first at Touchtone, then at him.
“He thinks just what I think, Gerald,” interrupted Philip, pulling the crimson silk handkerchief lower across his forehead, “and that is—”
“That the Victors are bigger men with a lighter boat, and have beaten us for three years running,” Davidson said, quickly; “but that the weather is perfect, that the water is as smooth as if we’d taken a flat-iron to it, and that the Victors don’t pull together after the style the Ossokosees do. Look at them now out yonder as they come around the point again! See that second fellow! If he don’t keep better stroke he can put the whole crew out!”
Twenty minutes later Gerald was seated out under the awning of the barge, sandwiched between Mr. Lorraine and Captain Kent. He waited in feverish impatience for the grand moment. The umpire, a Mr. Voss, from the next county, was arranging some matters between Mr. Marcy and the supporters of the Victors. There were to be three races; but, the second one being between two members of the Victors, and the last an informal affair between four of the village lads in working-boats, the special rivalry was not eclipsed. Gerald’s heart beat faster and faster as the crowd along the shores cheered six figures in crimson that glided quietly to their post of departure on the east; accompanied by the second shout for the yellow-filleted Victors who pulled proudly across the open water and rested, like pegs driven into its bed, opposite their rivals.
“Looks as if it would be an uncommon good race for both of ’em!” Gerald heard some one near him say. But Mr. Voss was standing up and waving his hand.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready!” from the right.
“Are you read-y?”
“Ready!” from the left.
“Go!”
Bang! And the echoes clanged over the low hills and startled Farmer Wooden’s skittish colt as Mr. Voss dropped his arm with the smoking pistol. Neck and neck, with a quick, snapping leap of the oars and a splendid start with which neither crew could quarrel, the slender, shining shells shot rod after rod up the lake.
Babel began at once—cries, cheers, applause. “Victors! Victors!” “Go it, Ossokosee!” “That’s it; stick to the lead!” “Ossokosee forever!”
“That aint no bad send-off for the Ossokosees!” exclaimed Farmer Wooden to his wagon-load as the swift flight of the boats made them diminish in size every few seconds.
“No,” said Miss Beauchamp, with her head full of Philip and of his satisfaction if there should be any bettering of the Ossokosees’ record; “but those strong-armed fellows in the Victors’ boat are holding off, Mr. Wooden. Don’t you see that? They’re going to give a tremendous spurt after that stake-boat is turned.”
By this time the road that ran parallel with the course was in a whirl of wheels. Dozens of carriages dashed up after the boats, to lose no yard of the contest. The Ossokosees were, in fact, a little in advance of the Victors. But, as Miss Beauchamp had supposed, that was evidently the policy of the older champions. They darted along well to the left of their rivals and kept carefully outside of a certain long strip of eel-grass where a danger-signal had been driven, and with their rapid pulling they were already beginning to lessen the number of boat-lengths between them and their opponents. Every body having taken it for granted that the excitement of this race was not who should beat, but how honorably the hotel faction should be beaten, there arose all along the mile of skirting land a buzz and then ragged cheers as people began all at once to discover the new possibility of the Victors being dishonored for once in their proud career.
“Hi! Look at that, I tell you, Fisher!” cried Mr. Marcy, as enthusiastic as Gerald himself, when he made up his mind that up there toward that stake-boat the Victors now began to pull with might and main. “Our boys—why, our boys are working like Trojans! And those chaps have found it out!”
“Hurrah! They’re ’round the stake-boat first, as true as I live!” said somebody else in the barge.
Gerald was standing balanced on the outermost edge of a seat, with Mr. Marcy’s arm about him to keep him in any kind of equilibrium. His eyes sparkled like stars as he held up his field-glass, and his color came and went with every cry he heard. It was for Philip’s sake; all for Philip! It was wonderful, by the bye, how many persons watched that race that morning, giving one thought for the Ossokosees in general and two to Philip Touchtone!
“Yes, they are!” exclaimed another. “Gracious! what ails the Victors? Pull, you sluggards, pull, I say! Those boys are gaining on you every second with that stroke. It must be nearly forty.” Louder and louder rang the clamor from all sides as the stake-boat was left behind by the belated Victors, not after all so much in arrear of the Ossokosees. Every body knew that the most remarkable “finish” ever to be dreamed of for Ossokosee Lake was begun. The carriages rolled quicker and quicker back to the goal, and began to pack together in the open meadow, abreast of the judge’s barge. Shouting boys and men ran frantically along the road and side-paths, waving hats. From the knots of on-lookers, the crowded Victors’ club-house, the private boats moored by the ledges, fluttered handkerchiefs, veils, and shawls in the hands of standing spectators; and every thing increased in intensity, of course, as the two glittering objects flashed forward nearer, nearer, until the bending backs of the six rowers in each could be seen, crimson and yellow—and the panic-struck yellow sweeping onward last!
“O-h-h-h! Victors! Victors!” rang the echoes on the left, where most of the village partisans lined the wagon. “Ossokosees!” “Now, then, Ossokosees! Give ’em your best!” “Good for you! That’s right, don’t let ’em make it!” “Touchtone! O, Touchtone!” “Go it, Dater, that’s the way to give it to ’em!” “One good spurt now, Victors, and you can have it your own way!” “Bravo, Ossokosee!” “Oss-o-ko-see!” And then mingled with all this voicing of favorites, began the patter, at first gentle, but strengthening, of thousands of hands clapping together in the open air, and whips and sticks pounded on wagon-bottoms, and parasols clattered with them. O, it was a great finish; and—sweep—sweep—as the now desperate Victors flew down it was clear that Philip and his friends were not yet nearly overtaken, and that with a hope that gave each arm the power of steel the Ossokosees were bound to win that race if they could hold two minutes longer their advantage.
Gerald let fall his hand. Mr. Marcy, Mr. Lorraine, Mr. Voss, and the others were leaning forward in strong hope; and, as to the friends of the Victors, in courage till the last. The stroke of the Ossokosees was weakening a trifle now, just at the unluckiest climax. In fact, the six had never pulled so fast in their lives as something had enabled them to do to-day. Their flesh and blood and wind were likely to fail at any instant now, in revenge. If Davidson should faint, or McKay come within a tenth of catching the smallest crab, why, then the charm must break and all end in defeat.
Many times since that day Gerald Saxton has said, smiling, “Well, I shall never forget the first time I knew that praying for a thing meant that you wanted it with all your heart and being! I prayed over a boat-race once, when I was a little boy.”
“Now, then, steady with that match!” called Mr. Voss to the men in charge of the salute to greet either winners and signal the race’s end. “They’ve got it! They’ve got it, sure!” cried Mr. Marcy, squeezing