Chapter III: Part 3

“Well, you see, sir,” said Teddy, “considerable depends on this race. As it is now, we stand about even. The Atlantic House beat us playing base-ball,--though they had to get the waiters to help them,--and we beat them at tennis. Our house is great on tennis. Then we had a boat race, and our boat won. They claimed it wasn’t a fair race, because their best boat was stuck on the sand-bar, and so we agreed to sail it over again. The second time the wind gave out, and all the boats had to be poled home. The Atlantic House boat was poled in first, and her crew claimed the race. Wasn’t it silly of them? Why, Charley Prescott told them, if they’d only said it was to be a _poling_ match, he’d have entered a mud-scow and left his sail-boat at the dock!”

“And so you are going to race again to-morrow?” asked the new arrival.

“Well, it isn’t exactly a race,” explained Teddy. “It’s a game we boys have invented. We call it ‘Pirates and Smugglers.’ It’s something like tag, only we play it on the water, in boats. We divide boats and boys up into two sides; half of them are pirates or smugglers, and half of them are revenue officers or man-o’-war’s-men. The ‘Pirate’s Lair’ is at the island, and our dock is ‘Cuba.’ That’s where the smugglers run in for cargoes of cigars and brandy. Mr. Moore gives us his empty cigar boxes, and Miss Sherrill (the lady who’s down here for her health) let us have all the empty Apollinaris bottles. We fill the bottles with water colored with crushed blackberries, and that answers for brandy.

“The revenue officers are stationed at Annapolis (that’s the Atlantic House dock), and when they see a pirate start from the island, or from our dock, they sail after him. If they can touch him with the bow of their boat, or if one of their men can board him, that counts one for the revenue officers; and they take down his sail and the pirate captain gives up his tiller as a sign of surrender.

“Then they tow him back to Annapolis, where they keep him a prisoner until he is exchanged. But if the pirate can dodge the Custom House boat, and get to the place he started for, without being caught, that counts one for him.”

“Very interesting, indeed,” said the new arrival; “but suppose the pirate won’t be captured or give up his tiller, what then?”

“Oh, well, in that case,” said Teddy, reflectively, “they’d cut his sheet-rope, or splash water on him, or hit him with an oar, or something. But he generally gives right up. Now to-morrow the Atlantic House boys are to be the revenue officers and we are to be the pirates. They have been watching us as we played the game, all summer, and they think they understand it well enough to capture our boats without any trouble at all.”

“And what do you think?” asked the new arrival.

“Well, I can’t say, certainly. They have faster boats than ours, but they don’t know how to sail them. If we had their boats, or if they knew as much about the river as we do, it would be easy enough to name the winners. But as it is, it’s about even.”

* * * * *

Every one who owned a boat was on the river the following afternoon, and these who didn’t own a boat hired or borrowed one--with or without the owner’s permission.

The shore from Chadwick’s to the Atlantic House dock was crowded with people. All Manasquan seemed to be ranged in line along the river’s bank. Crab-men and clam-diggers mixed indiscriminately with the summer boarders; and the beach-wagons and stages from Chadwick’s grazed the wheels of the dog-carts and drags from the Atlantic’s livery stables.

It does not take much to overthrow the pleasant routine of summer-resort life, and the state of temporary excitement existing at the two houses on the eve of the race was not limited to the youthful contestants.

The proprietor of the Atlantic House had already announced an elaborate supper in honor of the anticipated victory, and every father and mother whose son was to take part in the day’s race felt the importance of the occasion even more keenly than the son himself.

“Of course,” said Judge Carter, “it’s only a game, and for my part, so long as no one is drowned, I don’t really care who wins; _but_, if our boys” (“our boys” meaning all three crews) “allow those young whipper-snappers from the Atlantic House to win the pennant, they deserve to have their boats taken from them and exchanged for hoops and marbles!”

Which goes to show how serious a matter was the success of the Chadwick crews.

At three o’clock the amateur pirates started from the dock to take up their positions at the island. Each of the three small cat-boats, held two boys: one at the helm and one in charge of the centre-board and sheet-rope. Each pirate wore a jersey striped with differing colors, and the head of each bore the sanguinary red knitted cap, in which all genuine pirates are wont to appear. From the peaks of the three boats floated black flags, bearing the emblematic skull and bones of Captain Kidd’s followers.

As they left the dock the Chadwick’s people cheered with delight at their appearance and shouted encouragement, while the remaining youngsters fired salutes with a small cannon, which added to the uproar as well as increased the excitement of the moment by its likelihood to explode.

At the Atlantic House dock, also, the excitement was at fever heat.

Clad in white flannel suits and white duck yachting-caps with gilt buttons, the revenue officers strolled up and down the pier with an air of cool and determined purpose such as Decatur may have worn as he paced the deck of his man-of-war and scanned the horizon for Algerine pirates. The stars and stripes floated bravely from the peaks of the three cat-boats, soon to leap in pursuit of the pirate craft which were conspicuously making for the starting-point at the island.

At half-past three the judge’s steam-launch, the _Gracie_, made for the middle of the river, carrying two representatives from both houses and a dozen undergraduates from different colleges, who had chartered the boat for the purpose of following the race and seeing at close quarters all that was to be seen.

They enlivened the occasion by courteously and impartially giving the especial yell of each college of which there was a representative present, whether they knew him or not, or whether he happened to be an undergraduate, a professor, or an alumnus. Lest some one might inadvertently be overlooked, they continued to yell throughout the course of the afternoon, giving, in time, the shibboleth of every known institution of learning.

“Which do I think is going to win?” said the veteran boat-builder of Manasquan to the inquiring group around his boat-house. “Well, I wouldn’t like to say. You see, I built every one of those boats that sails to-day, and every time I make a boat I make it better than the last one. Now, the Chadwick boats I built near five years ago, and the Atlantic House boats I built last summer, and I’ve learned a good deal in five years.”

“So you think our side will win?” eagerly interrupted an Atlantic House boarder.

“Well, I didn’t say so, did I?” inquired the veteran, with crushing slowness of speech. “I didn’t say so. For though these boats the Chadwick’s boys have is five years old, they’re good boats still; and those boys know every trick and turn of ’em--and they know every current and sand-bar just as though it was marked with a piece of chalk. So if the Atlantic folks win, it’ll be because they’ve got the best boats; and if the Chadwick boys win, they’ll win because they’re better sailors.”

In the fashion of all first-class aquatic contests, it was fully half an hour after the time appointed for the race to begin before the first pirate boat left the island.

The _Ripple_, with Judge Carter’s two sons in command, was the leader; and when her sail filled and showed above the shore, a cheer from the Chadwick’s dock was carried to the ears of the pirate crew who sat perched on the rail as she started on her first long tack.

In a moment, two of the Atlantic House heroes tumbled into the _Osprey_, a dozen over-hasty hands had cast off her painter, had shoved her head into the stream, and the great race was begun.

The wind was down the river, or toward the island, so that while the _Osprey_ was sailing before the wind, the _Ripple_ had her sail close-hauled and was tacking.

“They’re after us!” said Charley Carter, excitedly. “It’s the _Osprey_; but I can’t make out who’s handling her. From the way they are pointing, I think they expect to reach us on this tack as we go about.”

The crew of the _Osprey_ evidently thought so too, for her bow was pointed at a spot on the shore, near which the _Ripple_ must turn if she continued much longer on the same tack.

“Do you see that?” gasped Charley, who was acting as lookout. “They’re letting her drift in the wind so as not to get there before us. I tell you what it is, Gus, they know what they’re doing, and I think we’d better go about now.”

“Do you?” inquired the younger brother, who had a lofty contempt for the other’s judgment as a sailor. “Well, I don’t. My plan is simply this: I am going to run as near the shore as I can, then go about sharp, and let them drift by us by a boat’s length. A boat’s length is as good as a mile, and then, when we are both heading the same way, I would like to see them touch us!”

“What’s the use of taking such risks?” demanded the elder brother. “I tell you, we can’t afford to let them get so near as that.”

“At the same time,” replied the man at the helm, “that is what we are going to do. I am commanding this boat, please to remember, and if I take the risks I am willing to take the blame.”

“You’ll be doing well, if you get off with nothing but blame,” growled the elder brother. “If you let those kids catch us, I’ll throw you overboard!”

“I’ll put you in irons for threatening a superior officer if you don’t keep quiet,” answered the younger Carter, with a grin, and the mutiny ended.

It certainly would have been great sport to have run almost into the arms of the revenue officers, and then to have turned and led them a race to the goal, but the humor of young Carter’s plan was not so apparent to the anxious throng of sympathizers on Chadwick’s dock.

“What’s the matter with the boys? Why don’t they go about?” asked Captain Chadwick, excitedly. “One would think they were trying to be caught.”

As he spoke, the sail of the _Ripple_ fluttered in the wind, her head went about sharply, and, as her crew scrambled up on the windward rail, she bent and bowed gracefully on the homeward tack.

But, before the boat was fully under way, the _Osprey_ came down upon her with a rush. The Carters hauled in the sail until their sheet lay almost flat with the surface of the river, the water came pouring over the leeward rail, and the boys threw their bodies far over the other side, in an effort to right her. The next instant there was a crash, the despised boat of the Atlantic House struck her fairly in the side, and one of the Atlantic House crew had boarded the _Ripple_ with a painter in one hand and his hat in the other.

Whether it was the shock of the collision, or disgust at having been captured, no one could tell; but when the _Osprey’s_ bow struck the _Ripple_, the younger Carter calmly let himself go over backward and remained in the mud with the water up to his chin and without making an effort to help himself, until the judge’s boat picked him up and carried him, an ignominious prisoner-of-war, to the Atlantic House dock.

The disgust over the catastrophe to the pirate crew was manifested on the part of the Chadwick sympathizers by gloomy silence or loudly expressed indignation. On the whole, it was perhaps just as well that the two Carters, as prisoners-of-war, were forced to remain at the Atlantic House dock, for their reception at home would not have been a gracious one.

Their captors, on the other hand, were received with all the honor due triumphant heroes, and were trotted off the pier on the shoulders of their cheering admirers; while the girls in the carriages waved their parasols and handkerchiefs and the colored waiters on the banks danced up and down and shouted like so many human calliopes.

The victories of John Paul Jones and the rescue of Lieutenant Greely became aquatic events of little importance in comparison. Everybody was so encouraged at this first success, that Atlantic House stock rose fifty points in as many seconds, and the next crew to sally forth from that favored party felt that the second and decisive victory was already theirs.

Again the black flag appeared around the bank of the island, and on the instant a second picked crew of the Atlantic House was in pursuit. But the boys who commanded the pirate craft had no intention of taking or giving any chances. They put their boat about, long before the revenue officers expected them to do so, and forced their adversaries to go so directly before the wind that their boat rocked violently. It was not long before the boats drew nearer together, again, as if they must certainly meet at a point not more than a hundred yards from the Atlantic House pier, where the excitement had passed the noisy point and had reached that of titillating silence.

“Go about sharp!” snapped out the captain of the pirate boat, pushing his tiller from him and throwing his weight upon it. His first officer pulled the sail close over the deck, the wind caught it fairly, and almost before the spectators were aware of it, the pirate boat had gone about and was speeding away on another tack. The revenue officers were not prepared for this. They naturally thought the pirates would run as close to the shore as they possibly could before they tacked, and were aiming for the point at which they calculated their opponents would go about, just as did the officers in the first race.

Seeing this, and not wishing to sail too close to them, the pirates had gone about much farther from the shore than was needful. In order to follow them the revenue officers were now forced to come about and tack, which, going before the wind as they were, they found less easy. The sudden change in their opponents’ tactics puzzled them, and one of the two boys bungled. On future occasions each confidentially informed his friends that it was the other who was responsible; but, however that may have been, the boat missed stays, her sail flapped weakly in the breeze, and, while the crew were vigorously trying to set her in the wind by lashing the water with her rudder, the pirate boat was off and away, one hundred yards to the good, and the remainder of the race was a procession of two boats with the pirates easily in the lead.

And now came the final struggle. Now came the momentous “rubber,” which was to plunge Chadwick’s into gloom, or keep them still the champions of the river. The appetites of both were whetted for victory by the single triumph each had already won, and their representatives felt that, for them, success or a watery grave were the alternatives.

The Atlantic House boat, the _Wave_, and the boat upon which the Chadwick’s hopes were set, the _Rover_, were evenly matched, their crews were composed of equally good sailors, and each was determined to tow the other ignominiously into port.

The two Prescotts watched the _Wave_ critically and admiringly, as she came toward them with her crew perched on her side and the water showing white under her bow.

“They’re coming entirely too fast to suit me,” said the elder Prescott. “I want more room, and I have a plan to get it. Stand ready to go about.” The younger brother stood ready to go about, keeping the _Rover_ on her first tack until she was clear of the island’s high banks and had the full sweep of the wind; then, to the surprise of her pursuers and the bewilderment of the spectators, she went smartly about, and turning her bow directly away from the goal, started before the wind back past the island and toward the wide stretch of river on the upper side.

“What’s your man doing that for?” excitedly asked one of the Atlantic House people, of the prisoners-of-war.

“I don’t know, certainly,” one of the Carters answered; “but I suppose he thinks his boat can go faster before the wind than the _Wave_ can, and he is counting on getting a long lead on her before he turns to go back. There is much more room up there, and the opportunities for dodging are about twice as good.”

“Why didn’t _we_ think of that, Gus?” whispered the other Carter.

“We were too anxious to show what smart sailors we were, to think of anything!” answered his brother, ruefully.

Beyond the island the _Rover_ gained rapidly; but as soon as she turned and began beating homeward, the _Wave_ showed that tacking was her strong point and began, in turn, to make up all the advantage the _Rover_ had gained.

The _Rover’s_ pirate-king cast a troubled eye at the distant goal and at the slowly but steadily advancing _Wave_.

His younger brother noticed the look.

“If one could only _do_ something,” he exclaimed, impatiently. “That’s the worst of sailing races. In a rowing race you can pull till you break your back, if you want to; but here you must just sit still and watch the other fellow creep up, inch by inch, without doing anything to help yourself. If I could only get out and push, or pole! It’s this trying to keep still that drives me crazy.”

“I think we’d better go about now,” said the commander, quietly, “and instead of going about again when we are off the bar, I intend to try to cross it.”

“What!” gasped the younger Prescott, “go across the bar at low water? You can’t do it. We’ll stick sure. Don’t try it. Don’t think of it!”

“It is rather a forlorn hope, I know,” said his brother; “but you can see, yourself, they’re bound to overhaul us if we keep on--we don’t draw as much water as they do, and if they try to follow us we’ll leave them high and dry on the bar.”

The island stood in the centre of the river, separated from the shore on one side by the channel, through which both boats had already passed, and on the other by a narrow stretch of water which barely covered the bar the _Rover_ purposed to cross.

When she pointed for it, the _Wave_ promptly gave up chasing her, and made for the channel with the intention of heading her off on the other side of the island in the event of her crossing the bar.

“She’s turned back!” exclaimed the captain of the _Rover_. “Now if we can only clear it, we’ll have a beautiful start on her. Sit perfectly still, and if you hear her centre-board scrape, pull it up, and trim her to keep her keel level.”

Slowly the _Rover_ drifted toward the bar; once her centre-board touched, and as the boat moved further into the shallow water the waves rose higher in proportion at the stern.

But her keel did not touch, and as soon as the dark water showed again, her crew gave an exultant shout and pointed her bow toward the Chadwick dock, whence a welcoming cheer came faintly over the mile of water.

“I’ll bet they didn’t cheer much when we were crossing the bar!” said the younger brother, with a grim chuckle. “I’ll bet they thought we were mighty foolish.”

“We couldn’t have done anything else,” returned the superior officer. “It was risky, though. If we’d moved an inch she would have grounded, sure.”

“I was scared so stiff that I couldn’t have moved if I’d tried to,” testified the younger sailor, with cheerful frankness.

Meanwhile the wind had freshened, and white caps began to show over the roughened surface of the river, while sharp, ugly flaws struck the sails of the two contesting boats from all directions, making them bow before the sudden gusts of wind until the water poured over the sides.

But the sharpness of the wind made the racing only more exciting, and such a series of manœuvres as followed, and such a naval battle, was never before seen on the Manasquan River.

The boys handled their boats like veterans, and the boats answered every movement of the rudders and shortening of the sails as a thoroughbred horse obeys its bridle. They ducked and dodged, turned and followed in pursuit, now going free before the wind, now racing, close-hauled, into the teeth of it. Several times a capture seemed inevitable, but a quick turn of the tiller would send the pirates out of danger. And, as many times, the pirate crew almost succeeded in crossing the line, but before they could reach it the revenue cutter would sweep down upon them and frighten them away again.

“We can’t keep this up much longer,” said the elder Prescott. “There’s more water in the boat now than is safe; and every time we go about, we ship three or four bucketfuls more.”

As he spoke, a heavy flaw keeled the boat over again, and, before her crew could right her, the water came pouring over the side with the steadiness of a small waterfall. “That settles it for us,” exclaimed Prescott, grimly; “we _must_ pass the line on this tack, or we sink.”

“They’re as badly off as we are,” returned his brother. “See how she’s wobbling--but she’s gaining on us, just the same,” he added.

“Keep her to it, then,” said the man at the helm. “Hold on to that sheet, no matter how much water she ships.”

“If I don’t let it out a little, she’ll sink!”

“Let her sink, then,” growled the chief officer. “I’d rather upset than be caught.”

The people on the shore and on the judges’ boat appreciated the situation fully as well as the racers. They had seen, for some time, how slowly the boats responded to their rudders and how deeply they were sunk in the water.

All the manœuvring for the past ten minutes had been off the Chadwick dock, and the Atlantic House people, in order to get a better view of the finish, were racing along the bank on foot and in carriages, cheering their champions as they came.

The _Rover_ was pointed to cross an imaginary line between the judges’ steam-launch and Chadwick’s dock. Behind her, not three boat-lengths in the rear, so close that her wash impeded their headway, came the revenue officers, their white caps gone, their hair flying in the wind, and every muscle strained.

Both crews were hanging far over the sides of the boats, while each wave washed the water into the already half-filled cockpits.

“Look out!” shouted the younger Prescott, “here comes another flaw!”

“Don’t let that sail out!” shouted back his brother, and as the full force of the flaw struck her, the boat’s rail buried itself in the water and her sail swept along the surface of the river.

For an instant it looked as if the boat was swamped, but as the force of the flaw passed over her, she slowly righted again, and with her sail dripping and heavy, and rolling like a log, she plunged forward on her way to the goal.

When the flaw struck the _Wave_, her crew let their sheet go free, saving themselves the inundation of water which had almost swamped the _Rover_, but losing the headway, which the _Rover_ had kept.

Before the _Wave_ regained it, the pirate craft had increased her lead, though it was only for a moment.

“We can’t make it,” shouted the younger Prescott, turning his face toward his brother so that the wind might not drown his voice. “They’re almost upon us, and we’re settling fast.”

“So are they,” shouted his brother. “We can’t be far from the line now, and as soon as we cross that, it doesn’t matter what happens to us!”

As he spoke another heavy gust of wind came sweeping toward them, turning the surface of the river dark blue as it passed over, and flattening out the waves.

“Look at that!” groaned the pirate-king, “we’re gone now, surely!” But before the flaw reached them, and almost before the prophetic words were uttered, the cannon on the judges’ boat banged forth merrily, and the crowds on the Chadwick dock answered its signal with an unearthly yell of triumph.

“We’re across, we’re across!” shouted the younger Prescott, jumping up to his knees in the water in the bottom of the boat and letting the wet sheet-rope run freely through his blistered fingers.

But the movement was an unfortunate one.

The flaw struck the boat with her heavy sail dragging in the water, and with young Prescott’s weight removed from the rail. She reeled under the gust as a tree bows in a storm, bent gracefully before it, and then turned over slowly on her side.

The next instant the _Wave_ swept by her, and as the two Prescotts scrambled up on the gunwale of their boat, the defeated crew saluted them with cheers, in response to which the victors bowed as gracefully as their uncertain position would permit.

The new arrival, who had come to Manasquan in the hope of finding something to shoot, stood among the people on the bank and discharged his gun until the barrels were so hot that he had to lay the gun down to cool. And every other man and boy who owned a gun or pistol of any sort, fired it off and yelled at the same time, as if the contents of the gun or pistol had entered his own body. Unfortunately, every boat possessed a tin horn with which the helmsman was wont to signal the keeper of the drawbridge. One evil-minded captain blew a blast of triumph on his horn, and in a minute’s time the air was rent with tootings as vicious as those of the steam whistle of a locomotive.

The _Wave_ just succeeded in reaching the dock before she settled and sank. A dozen of Chadwick’s boarders seized the crew by their coat collars and arms, as they leaped from the sinking boat to the pier, and assisted them to their feet, forgetful in the excitement of the moment that the sailors were already as wet as sponges on their native rocks.

“I suppose I should have stuck to my ship as Prescott did,” said the captain of the _Wave_ with a smile, pointing to where the judges’ boat was towing in the _Rover_ with her crew still clinging to her side; “but I’d already thrown you my rope, you know, and there really isn’t anything heroic in sticking to a sinking ship when she goes down in two feet of water.”

As soon as the Prescotts reached the pier, they pushed their way to their late rivals and shook them heartily by their hands. Then the Atlantic House people carried their crew around on their shoulders, and the two Chadwick’s crews were honored in the same embarrassing manner. The proprietor of the Atlantic House invited the entire Chadwick establishment over to a dance and a late supper.

“I prepared it for the victors,” he said, “and though these victors don’t happen to be the ones I prepared it for, the victors must eat it.”

The sun had gone down for over half an hour before the boats and carriages had left the Chadwick dock, and the Chadwick people had an opportunity to rush home to dress. They put on their very best clothes, “just to show the Atlantic people that they _had_ something else besides flannels,” and danced in the big hall of the Atlantic House until late in the evening.

When the supper was served, the victors were toasted and cheered and presented with a beautiful set of colors, and then Judge Carter made a stirring speech.

He went over the history of the rival houses in a way that pleased everybody, and made all the people at the table feel ashamed of themselves for ever having been rivals at all.

He pointed out in courtly phrases how excellent and varied were the modern features of the Atlantic House, and yet how healthful and satisfying was the old-fashioned simplicity of Chadwick’s. He expressed the hope that the two houses would learn to appreciate each other’s virtues, and hoped that in the future they would see more of each other.

To which sentiment everybody assented most noisily and enthusiastically, and the proprietor of the Atlantic House said that, in his opinion, Judge Carter’s speech was one of the finest he had ever listened to, and he considered that part of it which touched on the excellent attractions of the Atlantic House as simply sublime, and that, with his Honor’s permission, he intended to use it in his advertisements and circulars, with Judge Carter’s name attached.

RICHARD CARR’S BABY.

A few years ago, all the boys living in the town of Princeton who were at that age when it is easy to remember the fall, winter, spring, and summer as the foot-ball, coasting, swimming, and base-ball seasons, regarded Richard Carr as embodying their ideal of human greatness.

When they read in the history primers how George Washington became the Father of his Country, they felt sure that with a like opportunity Richard Carr would come to the front and be the stepfather of his country at least.

They lay in wait for him at the post-office, and as soon as he came in sight, would ask for his mail and run to give it to him; they would go ahead of him on the other side of the street, and cross over and meet him with a very important “How do you do, Mr. Carr?” and were quite satisfied if he gave them an amused “Hello!” in return.

They hung photographs of him and the woodcuts from the daily papers around their rooms, and their efforts to imitate his straight, military walk, with shoulders squared and head erect, were of great benefit to their lungs and personal appearance.

Those ragged hangers-on of the college, too, who picked up odd dimes from the students, by carrying baggage and chasing tennis balls, waited on Richard Carr, and shouted “Hurrah for you, Carr!” whenever that worthy walked by.

Those who have not already guessed the position which Richard Carr held in the college will be surprised to learn that he was captain of the college foot-ball team, and those who cannot understand the admiration that Arthur Waller, and Willie Beck, and the rest of the small fry of Princeton felt for this young man would better stop here--for neither will they understand this story.

Among all these young hero-worshippers, Richard Carr’s most devoted follower was Arthur Waller--for, while the other boys, looking upon Carr as their ideal, hoped in time that they might themselves be even as great as he, Arthur felt that to him, this glorious possibility must be denied. Arthur was neither strong nor sturdy, and could, he knew, never hope to be like the captain of the foot-ball team, whose strength and physique seemed, for this reason, all the grander to him.

He never ran after Carr, nor tried to draw his attention as the others did; he was content to watch and form his own ideas about his hero from a distance. Richard Carr was more than the captain of the team to him. He was the one person who, above all others, had that which Arthur lacked--strength; and so Arthur did not merely envy him,--he worshipped him.

Although Arthur Waller was somewhat older in his way of thinking than his friends, he enjoyed the same games they enjoyed, and would have liked to play them, if he had been able; but, as he was not, the boys usually asked him to keep the score, or to referee the matches they played on the cow pasture with one of the college’s cast-off foot-balls. On the whole, the boys were very good to Arthur.

It was the first part of the last half of the Yale-Princeton foot-ball match, played on the Princeton grounds. The modest grand stand was filled with young ladies and college boys, while all the townspeople covered the fences and carriages, and crowded closely on the whitewashed lines, cheering and howling at the twenty-two very dirty, very determined, and very cool young men who ran, rushed, dodged, and “tackled” in the open space before them,--the most interested and least excited individuals on the grounds.

Arthur Waller had crept between the spectators until he had reached the very front of the crowd, and had stood through the first half of the game with bated breath, his finger-nails pressed into his palms, and his eyes following only one of the players. He was entirely too much excited to shout or call as the others did; and he was perfectly silent except for the little gasps of fear he gave involuntarily when Richard Carr struck the ground with more than the usual number of men on top of him.

Suddenly, Mr. Hobbes, of Yale, kicked the ball, but kicked it sideways; and so, instead of going straight down the field, it turned and whirled over the heads of the crowd and settled among the carriages. A panting little Yale man tore wildly after it, beseeching Mr. Hobbes, in agonizing tones, to put him “on side.” Mr. Hobbes ran past the spot where the ball would strike, and the Yale man dashed after it through the crowd. Behind him, his hair flying, his eyes fixed on the ball over his head, every muscle on a strain, came Richard Carr. He went at the people blindly, and they tumbled over one another like a flock of sheep, in their efforts to clear the way for him. With his head in the air, he did not see Arthur striving to get out of his way; he only heard a faint cry of pain when he stumbled for an instant, and, looking back, saw the crowd closing around a little boy who was lying very still and white, but who was not crying. Richard Carr stopped as he ran back, and setting Arthur on his feet, asked, “Are you hurt, youngster?” But, as Arthur only stared at him and said nothing, the champion hurried on again into the midst of the fray.

* * * * *

“There is one thing we must have before the next match,” said the manager of the team, as the players were gathered in the dressing-rooms after the game, “and that is a rope to keep the people back. They _will_ crowd on the field, and get in the way of the half-backs, and, besides, it is not safe for them to stand so near. Carr knocked over a little boy this afternoon, and hurt him quite badly, I believe.”

“What’s that?” said Richard Carr, turning from the group of substitutes who were explaining how they would have played the game and tendering congratulations.

“I was saying,” continued the manager, “that we ought to have a rope to keep the people off the field; they interfere with the game; and they say that you hurt a little fellow when you ran into the crowd during the last half.”

“Those boys shouldn’t be allowed to stand in front there,” said Richard Carr; “but I didn’t know I hurt him. Who was he? where does he live? Do you know?”

“It was the widow Waller’s son, sir,” volunteered Sam, the colored attendant. “That’s her house with the trees around it; you can see the roof from here. I think that’s where they took him.”

“Took him!” exclaimed Richard Carr, catching up his great-coat. “Was he so badly hurt? You wait until I come back, Sam.”

A pale, gentle-faced woman, who looked as if she had been crying, came to the door when Richard Carr rang the bell of the cottage which had been pointed out to him from the athletic grounds. When she saw his foot-ball costume, the look of welcome on her face died out very suddenly.

“Does the little boy live here who was hurt on the athletic grounds?” asked Richard Carr, wondering if it could have been the doctor she was expecting.

“Yes, sir,” answered the lady, coldly.

“I came to see how he was; I am the man who ran against him. I wish to explain to you how it happened--I suppose you are Mrs. Waller?” (Richard Carr hesitated, and bowed, but the lady only bowed her head in return, and said nothing.) “It was accidental, of course,” continued Carr. “He was in the crowd when I ran in after the ball; it was flying over our heads, and I was looking up at it and didn’t see him. I hope he is all right now.” Before the lady could answer, Richard Carr’s eyes wandered from her face and caught sight of a little figure lying on a sofa in the wide hall. Stepping across the floor as lightly as he could in his heavy shoes, Carr sat down beside Arthur on the sofa. “Well, old man,” he said, taking Arthur’s hands in his, “I hope I didn’t hurt you much. No bones broken,--are there? You were very plucky not to cry. It was a very hard fall, and I’m very, very sorry; but I didn’t see you, you know.”

“Oh, no, sir,” said Arthur, quickly, with his eyes fixed on Richard Carr’s face. “I knew you didn’t see me, and I thought maybe you would come when you heard I was hurt. I don’t mind it a bit, from you. Because Willie Beck says--he is the captain of our team, you know--that you wouldn’t hurt any one if you could help it; he says you never hit a man on the field unless he’s playing foul or trying to hurt some of your team.”

Richard Carr doubted whether this recital of his virtues would appeal as strongly to Mrs. Waller as it did to Arthur, so he said, “And who is Willie Beck?”

“Willie Beck! Why, don’t you know Willie Beck?” exclaimed Arthur, who was rapidly losing his awe of Richard Carr. “He says he knows you; he is the boy who holds your coat for you during the practice games.”

Richard Carr saw he was running a risk of hurting some young admirer’s feelings, so he said, “Oh, yes, the boy who holds my coat for me. And he is the captain of your team, is he? Well, the next time you play, you wear this cap and tell Willie Beck and the rest of the boys that I gave it to you because you were so plucky when I knocked you down.”

With these words he pressed his orange and black cap into Arthur’s hand and rose to go, but Arthur looked so wistfully at him, and then at the captain’s cap, that he stopped.

“I’d like to wear it, Mr. Carr,” he said slowly. “I’d like to, ever so much, Mamma,” he added, turning his eyes to where Mrs. Waller stood looking out at the twilight and weeping softly,--“but you see, sir, I don’t play myself. I generally referee. I’m not very strong, sir, not at present; but I will be some day,--won’t I, Mamma? And the doctor says I must keep quiet until I am older, and not play games that are rough. For he says if I got a shock or a fall I might not get over it, or it might put me back--and I do so want to get well just as soon as I can. You see, sir, it’s my spine----”

Richard Carr gave a sharp gasp of pain and dropped on his knees beside the sofa, and buried his face beside the boy’s on the pillow, with his arms thrown tightly around his shoulder.

For a moment Arthur looked at him startled and distressed, and patted Richard Carr’s broad back to comfort him; and then he cried:

“Oh, but I didn’t mean to blame _you_, Mr. Carr! I know you didn’t see me. Don’t you worry about me, Mr. Carr. I’m going to get well some day. Indeed I am, sir!”

* * * * *

Whether it was that the surgeon whom Richard Carr’s father sent on from New York knew more about Arthur’s trouble than the other doctors did, or whether it was that Richard Carr saw that Arthur had many medicines, pleasant and unpleasant, which his mother had been unable to get for him, I do not know,--but I do know that Arthur got better day by day.

And day after day, Richard Carr stopped on his way to the field, and on his way back again, to see his “Baby,” as he called him, and to answer the numerous questions put to him by Arthur’s companions. They always assembled at the hour of Richard Carr’s arrival in order to share some of the glory that had fallen on their comrade, and to cherish and carry away whatever precious thoughts Richard Carr might let drop concerning foot-ball, or the weather, or any other vital topic on which his opinion was decisive.

As soon as the doctor said Arthur could be moved, Richard Carr used to stop for him in a two-seated carriage and drive him in state to the foot-ball field. And after he had drawn up the carriage where Arthur could get a good view of the game, he would hand over the reins to one of those vulture-like individuals who hover around the field of battle, waiting for some one to be hurt, and who are known as “substitutes.” In his orange and black uniform, one of these fellows made a very gorgeous coachman indeed.

And though the students might yell, and the townspeople shout ever so loudly, Richard Carr only heard one shrill little voice, which called to him above all the others; and as that voice got stronger day by day, Richard Carr got back his old spirit and interest in the game, which, since the Yale match, he seemed to have lost.

The team said Richard Carr’s “Baby” brought them luck, and they called him their “Mascot,” and presented him with a flag of the college colors; and when the weather grew colder they used to smother him in their white woollen jerseys, so that he looked like a fat polar bear.

It was a very pretty sight, indeed, to see how Richard Carr and the rest of the team, whenever they had scored or had made a good play, would turn first for their commendation to where Arthur sat perched above the crowd, waving his flag, his cheeks all aglow, and the substitute’s arm around him to keep him from falling over in his excitement. And the other teams who came to play at Princeton soon learned about the captain’s “Baby,” and inquired if he were on the field; and if he was, they would go up and gravely shake hands with him, as with some celebrated individual holding a public reception.

Richard Carr is out West now at the head of a great sheep ranch, and Arthur Waller enters Princeton next year. I do not know whether he will be on the team, though he is strong enough; but I am sure he will help to hand down the fame of Richard Carr, and that he will do it in such a way that his hero will be remembered as the possessor of certain qualities, perhaps not so highly prized, but almost as excellent, as were those which fitted him to be captain of the team.

THE GREAT TRI-CLUB TENNIS TOURNAMENT.

Charles Coleridge Grace, as he was called by the sporting editors, or Charley Grace, as he was known about college, had held the tennis championship of his Alma Mater ever since he had been a freshman.

Even before that eventful year he had carried off so many silver cups and highly ornamented racquets at the different tournaments all over the country, that his entering college was quite as important an event to the college as it was to Charles.

His career was not marked by the winning of any scholarships, nor by any brazen prominence in the way of first honors; and though the president may have wondered at the frequency of his applications to attend funerals, marriages, and the family dentist, he was always careful to look the other way when he met him hurrying to the station with three racquets in one hand and a travelling bag in the other.

Nor was he greatly surprised to read in the next morning’s paper that “this brought the winner of the last set and Charles Coleridge Grace together in the finals, which were won by Mr. Grace, 6-4, 6-4, 6-2.”

It was near the end of the first term in Grace’s junior year, and at the time when the dates of tournaments and examinations were hopelessly clashing, that he received another of many invitations to attend an open tournament. This particular circular announced that the N. L. T. A. of the United States had given the Hilltown Tennis Club permission to hold on their own grounds a tournament for the championship of the State.

Mr. Grace was cordially invited to participate, not only through the formal wording of the circular, but in a note of somewhat extravagant courtesy signed by the club’s secretary.

Hilltown is a very pretty place, and some of its people are very wealthy. They see that it has good roads for their village-carts and landaus to roll over, and their Queen Anne cottages are distinctly ornamental to the surrounding landscape.

They have also laid out and inclosed eight tennis-courts of both clay and turf, to suit every one’s taste, and have erected a club-house which is apparently fashioned after no one’s. Every year Hilltown invited the neighboring tennis-clubs of Malvern and Pineville to compete with them in an interclub tournament, and offered handsome prizes which were invariably won by representatives of Hilltown.

But this year, owing chiefly to the energies of Mr. C. Percy Clay, the club’s enthusiastic secretary, Hilltown had been allowed to hold a tournament on its own tennis-ground for the double and single championship of the State. This honor necessitated the postponement of the annual tri-club meeting until ten days after the championship games had been played.

The team who did the playing for the Hilltown club were two young men locally known as the Slade brothers.

They were not popular, owing to their assuming an air of superiority over every one in the town, from their father down to C. Percy Clay. But as they had won every prize of which the tennis-club could boast, they of necessity enjoyed a prominence which their personal conduct alone could not have gained for them.

Charles Grace arrived at Hilltown one Wednesday morning. All but the final game of the doubles had been played off on the two days previous, and the singles were to be begun and completed that afternoon. The grounds were well filled when he reached them, and looked as pretty as only pretty tennis-grounds can look when they are gay with well-dressed girls, wonderfully bright blazers, and marquees of vividly brilliant stripes.

Grace found the list of entries to the singles posted up in the club-house, and discovered that they were few in number, and that there was among them only one name that was familiar to him.

As he turned away from the list, two very young and bright-faced boys, in very well-worn flannels, came up the steps of the club-house just as one of the Slades was leaving it.

“Hullo,” said Slade, “you back again?”

It was such an unusual and impertinent welcome that Grace paused in some surprise and turned to listen.

The eldest of the boys laughed good-naturedly and said: “Yes, we’re here, Mr. Slade. You know we drew a bye, and so we play in the finals.”

“Well, of course you’ll play my brother and myself then. I hope the novelty of playing in the last round won’t paralyze you. If it doesn’t, we will,” he added with a short laugh. “I say, Ed,” he continued, turning to his elder brother, “here are Merton and his partner come all the way from Malvern to play in the finals. They might have saved their car-fare, don’t you think?”

The elder brother scowled at the unfortunate representatives of Malvern.

“You don’t really mean to make us stand out here in the hot sun fooling with you, do you?” he asked impatiently. “You’ll only make a spectacle of yourselves. Why don’t you drop out? We’ve beaten you often enough before, I should think, to suit you, and we want to begin the singles.”

But the Malvern youths were not to be browbeaten. They said they knew they would be defeated, but that the people at Malvern were very anxious to have them play, and had insisted on their coming up. “They wish to see what sort of a chance we have for the tri-club tournament, next week,” they explained.

“Well, we’ll show what sort of chance you have with a vengeance,” laughed one of the brothers. “But it really is hard on us.”

The two boys flushed, and one of them began hotly, “Let me tell you, Mr. Slade,”--but the other put his hand on his arm, saying, “What’s the use?” and pushed him gently toward the grounds.

The Slades went into the club-house grumbling.

“Nice lot, those home players,” soliloquized Grace. “I’ll pound the life out of them for that!”

He was still more inclined to revenge the Malvern youths later, after their defeat by the Slades,--which was not such a bad defeat after all, as they had won one of the four sets, and scored games in the others. But the Slades, with complete disregard for all rules of hospitality to say nothing of the etiquette of tennis, kept up a running comment of ridicule and criticism on their hopeful opponents’ play, and, much to Grace’s disgust, the spectators laughed and encouraged them. The visitors struggled hard, but everything was against them; they did not understand playing as a team, and though they were quick and sure-eyed enough, and their service was wonderfully strong, the partiality of the crowd “rattled” them, and the ridicule of their opponents was not likely to put them more at their ease.

The man who had been asked to umpire with Grace was a college man, and they both had heard all that went on across the net in the final round. So when their duties were over, they went up to the defeated Malvernites and shook hands with them, and said something kind to them about their playing.

But the cracks did not congratulate the winners. Indeed, they were so disgusted with the whole affair that they refused to be lionized by Mr. Clay and the spectators in any way, but went off to the hotel in the village for luncheon,--which desertion rendered the spread on the grounds as flat as a coming-of-age dinner with the comer-of-age left out.

After luncheon, Thatcher, the other collegian, had the pleasure of defeating the younger Slade in two straight sets, to his own and Grace’s satisfaction; but Mr. Thatcher’s satisfaction was somewhat dampened when Grace polished him off in the next round, after a game which Grace made as close as he could.

Other rounds were going on in the other courts, and at five o’clock Grace and the elder Slade came together in the finals. Thatcher had gone home after wishing his conqueror luck, and Grace was left alone. He was not pleased to see that Slade’s brother was to act as one of the umpires, as he had noticed that his decisions in other games were carelessly incorrect.

But he was in no way prepared for what followed.

For the younger Slade’s umpiring in the final game was even more efficient in gaining points for the Hilltown side than was the elder’s playing.