CHAPTER XXIVAFTER THE RACE.
There was a faint cheer from the shore. Merriwell had won the race, and the man from Greenville was second. Welch had received a merited ducking, but was rescued from the water without much trouble.
Welch was furious. Over and over he declared he would have won the race had not Hodge fouled him, but the judges decided it was his own fault, as he was seen to deliberately get in Bart’s way.
This silenced him, but he looked sullen and revengeful, and continued to mutter to himself.
The canoe occupied by Hodge had not been injured by the collision, and Bart slowly paddled toward shore at Merriwell’s side when the race was over.
“Well, what do you think about it now?” he asked.
“I think I had the pull of my life to win,” admitted Frank. “I came near waiting too long before getting down to business.”
“Oh! I felt that one of us stood a good show to win,” said Bart; “but that was not what I meant.”
“Eh? Then what did you mean?”
“What do you think about Mr. Jim Welch?”
“I think he tried to foul me.”
“Sure.”
“And you prevented it, although I don’t know how you did it, for you were on the other side of him a few moments before. I was paying attention strictly to business, and supposed I was passing with Welch between us. How did you get in there?”
“I will tell you,” said Hodge, in a low tone. “I saw you were coming up at wonderful speed, for I took the chance of looking round. I realized that you would be a winner if not interfered with, and that you were going to pass on the other side of Welch. The moment I realized that, into my mind flashed the conviction that he would try to keep you from winning. The man from Greenville was hanging close to you, and there was a chance that he would beat all of us, unless you had a free course to the finish. I felt that I had a slim show of winning, so I permitted my canoe to drop back till I could cross behind Welch just when you were forging alongside of him. I reserved a certain amount of strength for a great spurt, and I needed it the moment I got into position. When I saw him try to foul you, I used every ounce of energy and drove my canoe into his. That’s all.”
“Well, you did a good job, old man; but I don’t know what the judges will say about it.”
“I don’t care what they say about it. What I want to know is what you say about Mr. Jim Welch now. Yesterday he tried to hammer you, to-day he tried to shoot you, and now, although you saved him from drowning this morning, he did his best to knock you out of this race. Is he thoroughly bad or not?”
“He is a rascal, that I will admit, but I do not believe him thoroughly bad, Bart.”
“Well, you are hard to convince!” cried Hodge, in disgust. “I think you are stubborn—you will not give up when you know you are wrong.”
“You do not think that, Hodge,” said Merry, reproachfully; “you must know better.”
Not another word would Bart say about it. He paddled along in sulky silence, not even giving heed when Frank thanked him for his act in preventing Welch from fouling.
From their boat the judges announced that Frank Merriwell was the winner. When Welch protested, they told him he deliberately turned his canoe in front of Hodge. The fellow could have claimed that Bart was off his course, but he was cautioned to let it drop, being told that it would be better to do that, as his attempt at crooked play would be shown up if he made a fuss about it. So the report went out that the collision came about because Welch got in Hodge’s course; but those who saw everything plainly knew this was not the real cause.
For two days Frank Merriwell had kept his identity secret as far as possible, being led to do so because of his experiences in Camden, Rockland and Belfast. Now, however, everybody was asking the name of the winner, and it passed from one to another that it was the great Yale athlete, Frank Merriwell.
Two baseball teams had watched the race from the shore. They were the Newports and the M. C. I.’s, of Pittsfield, and the most of them had heard of Merriwell. When they knew he was there at Camp Benson they were eager to get a close look at him. Hundreds of others experienced the same eagerness, and thus it came about that there was a rush of people toward that point of shore that Frank approached.
Some one proposed a cheer for Frank Merriwell, and it was given with a hearty will. Then a man cried:
“Why, he’s one of them Sandy Point dudes that everybody said wouldn’t cut no ice in the race.”
“Mebbe he didn’t cut no ice,” cried another, “but he cut water enough to win first purse.”
This caused a laugh.
There were scores of pretty girls in the throng, and they regarded the handsome victor admiringly. Merriwell could have flirted with almost any of them had he chosen, although he would have needed a proper introduction to not a few before they would have recognized him.
At Camp Benson, however, there seemed to be an unusual freedom, and it was not difficult to get acquainted with almost anyone. Young ladies who would not have thought of such impropriety elsewhere often ventured to flirt mildly with strangers.
Bruce Browning was lounging in the shade beneath a tree, with Dunnerwust at his side, awaiting Frank.
“Well, Merry,” he called, “you did the trick, but I had begun to think you were not in it.”
“Yaw,” nodded Hans, “you hat pegun to think I vos nod in id, but ven you got der sdart der odder veller on I seen how der peesness peen goin’ to end. You vos a lulu, Vrankie!”
Hans’ dialect caused those in his vicinity to smile or laugh outright.
Frank came ashore, and immediately he was surrounded by the ball players.
“Mr. Merriwell,” said the captain of the Newport team, “we would like to have you umpire the game for us this afternoon. It begins right away.”
“It will be a great favor, Mr. Merriwell,” declared the captain of the M. C. I.’s, with more politeness. “I assure you we shall regard it as a great favor.”
“The position is not a pleasant one,” said Frank. “I’d much rather look on and see the game.”
“We will pay you if you——” began the Newport captain.
Frank stopped him.
“You cannot hire me for money to umpire,” he said, promptly. “If I did so——”
“Will you?” cried several.
“Go ahead, Merry,” said Hodge.
“Well,” laughed Frank, “I’ll do it.”
One minute later criers were running over the ground announcing that the ball game that afternoon would be umpired by the great Yale pitcher, Frank Merriwell.
Frank was given time to change his clothes, and then, still accompanied by Hodge, he went onto the ball ground.
The ground was not fenced, and it was completely surrounded by a throng of spectators. The M. C. I.’s were practicing.
As Frank appeared, somebody shouted:
“Here comes Merriwell!”
There was a great clapping of hands.
Frank was dressed in a spotless white flannel suit, and he made a handsome appearance.
The captains of the two teams approached him, and he asked them about ground rules. They gave him the desired information, and then he was provided with a fresh Spaulding in an unbroken box.
The Newports had practiced already, and the time for the game to begin was past, so Merriwell stepped out behind the plate and called:
“Play ball!”