O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1920 Part 43

Deacon studied them. They were rowing along steadily, the eyes of their c.o.xswain turned curiously upon the Baliol sh.e.l.l. He suspected the little man would like nothing better than to have Baliol break her back to the two-mile mark and thus dig a watery grave. He suspected also, that, failing Baliol's willingness to do this, the test would now be forced upon her. For Shelburne was a heavy crew with all sorts of staying power. What Deacon had to keep in mind was that his eight was not so rugged and had therefore to be nursed along, conserving energy wherever possible.

It was in the third mile that the battle of wits and judgment had to be carried to conclusion, the fourth mile lurking as a mere matter of staying power and ability to stand the gaff. Deacon's idea was that at present his crew was leading because Shelburne was not unwilling for the present that this should be. How true this was became evident after the two-mile flags had pa.s.sed, when the Shelburne oarsmen began to lay to their strokes with tremendous drive, the boat creeping foot by foot upon the rival sh.e.l.l until the Baliol lead had been overcome and Shelburne herself swept to the fore.

Deacon raised the stroke slightly, to thirty-three, but soon dropped to thirty-two, watching Shelburne carefully lest she make a runaway then and there. Baliol was half a length astern at the two-and-a-half mile mark, pa.s.sing which the Shelburne crew gave themselves up to a tremendous effort to kill off her rival then and there.

"Jim! They're doing thirty-six--walking away."

The c.o.xswain's face was white and drawn.

But Deacon continued to pa.s.s up a thirty-two stroke while the Shelburne boat slid gradually away until at the three-mile mark there was a foot of clear water between its rudder and the prow of the Baliol sh.e.l.l.

Deacon glanced at the c.o.xswain. A mile to go--one deadly mile.

"Thirty-six," he said. "Shelburne's can't have much more left."

The time had pa.s.sed for study now. Gritting his teeth, Deacon bent to his work, his eyes fixed upon the swaying body of the c.o.xswain, whose sharp staccato voice snapped out the measure; the beat of the oars in the locks came as one sound.

"Right, boys! Up we come. Bully--bully--bully! Half a length now. Do you hear? Half a length! Give me a quarter, boys. Eh, G.o.dfrey! We've got it. Now up and at 'em, Baliol. Oh, you h.e.l.l-dogs!"

As in a dream Deacon saw the Shelburne boat drift into view, saw the various oarsmen slide past until he and the rival stroke were rowing practically abeam.

"That's for you, Dad," he muttered--and smiled.

He saw the men swing with quickened rhythm, saw the spray fly like bullets from the Shelburne blades.

"Look out." There was a note of anguish in Seagraves' voice.

"Shelburne's spurting again."

A malediction trembled upon Deacon's lips. So here was the joker held in reserve by the rival crew! Had Baliol anything left? Had he anything left? Grave doubt was mounting in his soul. Away swept the Shelburne boat inches at a stroke until the difference in their positions was nearly a length. Three miles and a half! Not an observer but believed that this gruelling contest had been worked out.

Seagraves, his eyes running tears, believed it as he swung backward and forward exhorting his men. Half a mile more! The crews were now rowing between the anch.o.r.ed lines of yachts and excursion-craft. The finish boat was in sight.

And now Deacon, exalted by something nameless, uttered a cry and began to give to Baliol more than he really had. Surely, steadily, he raised his stroke while his comrades, like the lion-hearts they were, took it up and put the sanction of common authority upon it.

Thirty-four! Thirty-six! Not the spurt of physical prowess, but of indomitable mentality.

"Up we come!" Seagraves' voice was shrill like a bugle. He could see expressions of stark fear in the faces of the rival oarsmen. They had given all they had to give, had given enough to win almost any race. But here in this race they had not given enough.

On came the Baliol sh.e.l.l with terrific impulse. Quarter of a mile; Shelburne pa.s.sed, her prow hanging doggedly on to the Baliol rudder.

Victory! Deacon's head became clear. None of the physical torture he had felt in the past mile was now registered upon his consciousness.

No thought but that of impending victory!

"Less than a quarter of a mile, boys. In the stretch. Now--my G.o.d!"

Following the c.o.xswain's broken exclamation, Deacon felt an increased resistance upon his blade.

"Eh?"

"Innis has carried away his oarlock." The eyes of the c.o.xswain strained upon Deacon's face.

Deacon gulped. Strangely a picture of his father filled his mind.

His face hardened.

"All right! Tell him to throw his oar away and swing with the rest.

Don't move your rudder now. Keep it straight as long as you can."

From astern the sharp eyes of the Shelburne c.o.x had detected the accident to Baliol's Number Six. His voice was chattering stridently.

Deacon, now doing the work practically of two men, was undergoing torture which shortly would have one of two effects. Either he would collapse or his spirit would carry him beyond the claims of overtaxed physique. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes--a groan escaped his lips. Then so far as personality, personal emotions, personal feelings were concerned, Jim Deacon ceased to function. He became merely part of the mechanism of a great effort, the princ.i.p.al guiding part.

And of all those rowing men of Baliol only the c.o.xswain saw the Shelburne boat creeping up slowly, inexorably--eight men against seven. For nearly a quarter of a mile the grim fight was waged.

"Ten strokes more, boys!"

The prow of the Shelburne sh.e.l.l was on a line with Baliol's Number Two.

"One--two--three--four----" The bow of the Shelburne boat plunged up abeam Baliol's bow oar.

"Five--six--G.o.d, boys!--seven----"

The voice of the c.o.xswain swept upward in a shrill scream. A gun boomed; the air rocked with the screech and roar of whistles.

Slowly Deacon opened his eyes. Seagraves, the c.o.xswain, was standing up waving his megaphone. Rollins, at Number Seven, lay p.r.o.ne over his oar. Innis, who had broken his oarlock, sat erect; Wallace, at Number Five, was down. So was the bow oar. Mechanically Deacon's hand sought the water, splas.h.i.+ng the body of the man in front of him.

Then suddenly a mahogany launch dashed alongside. In the bow was a large man with white moustache and florid face and burning black eyes.

His lips were drawn in a broad grin which seemed an anomaly upon the face of Cephas Doane.

If so he immediately presented a still greater anomaly. He laughed aloud.

"Poor old Shelburne! I--George! The first in four years! I never saw anything quite like that. We've talked of Baliol's rowing-spirit--eh!

Here, you Deacon, let me give you a hand out of the sh.e.l.l. We'll run you back to quarters."

Deacon, wondering, was pulled to the launch and then suddenly stepped back, his jaw falling, his eyes alight as a man advanced from the stern.

"Dad!"

"Yes," chuckled Doane. "We came up together--to celebrate."

"You mean--you mean--" Jim Deacon's voice faltered.

"Yes, I mean--" Cephas Doane stopped suddenly. "I think in justice to my daughter-in-law to be, Jane Bostwick, that some explanation is in order."

"Yes, sir." Deacon, his arm about his father's shoulder, stared at the man.

"You see, Dr. Nicholls had the idea that you needed a finer edge put on your rowing spirit. So I got Jane to cook up the story about that cas.h.i.+er business at the bank."

"You did!"

"Yes. Of course your father was appointed. The only trouble was that Jane, bright and clever as she is, bungled her lines."

"Bungled!" Deacon's face cleared. "That's what Dr. Nicholls said about her on the road, the day I bucked out. I remember the word somehow."