Chapter XXIX Something in the Offing
Of course, there were days when the Storm Islander crew could not get out the eight-oared shell. When the wind came out of the East the sound was almost sure to be pretty choppy; and, although Kingdon believed a little rough-water practice would not hurt the boys, a shell cannot be successfully handled in a sea that is too rough.
Further than that, Horace Pence was captain, and Kingdon never advised now unless invited to do so. The black-eyed chap, it was true, gave his full attention to the work when the shell was out, neglecting nothing that seemed vital to the training of the crew. He believed in them thoroughly, believed they were going to make a brilliant showing. Pence was really over-confident regarding their ability to beat the Blackport crew. Although Rex Kingdon often talked with supreme confidence, his thought was usually well-blended with caution. He was not at all sure in this instance that they had a winning crew.
Since that cheerful day when they had whipped the Blackport nine on the ball field, Pence and his friends believed they could beat Yansey and his comrades at any game. Yansey’s own pet expression, “Nothing to it!” was forever on the lips of Ben, Pudge and Kirby when they spoke of the coming rowing contest.
“But you and I have been told, Jawn,” Rex drawled, talking the situation over with the big fellow one day, “that rowing races aren’t always won in the boat.”
“Hey?” exclaimed Midkiff. “Who told us that bunk?”
“They’re often won at the training table and in the gym.,” chuckled Rex, who dearly loved to get a rise out of his Old Hall room-mate.
“Oh, scissors!” observed Midkiff.
“Those chaps aren’t training, you know. Neither are we as we should, for that matter. But they all dally with the cunning little coffin-nail, even Pudge. They eat everything and anything—and any-how. They lie around after eating like a boa constrictor assimilating a heifer; and then they take exercise too violently. Some of them puff, like the Spoondrift’s exhaust, two minutes after they get to work.”
“What did you expect when you handed the crew over to Horrors?” sniffed Midkiff.
“What I expected has nothing to do with what I want,” Kingdon responded with some appearance of gloom. “Don’t want it told all along this coast that a bunch of us Walcott Hall fellows joined a rowing crew that won’t even have a look-in when we go up against these local chaps.”
“What you going to do?”
“What would you suggest, Jawn? Come, Old Wise Head, give us a boost.”
“Take hold of the crew yourself.”
“And oust Horrors?”
“Can’t be two captains in one boat.”
“No,” Kingdon said with seriousness. “Verily I itch for the chance to whip the crew up. I believe it can be bettered by shifting some of them about, too. But I fear, Jawn—I fear!”
“Fear what?” grunted his friend.
“Of losing all I’ve gained.”
“What the dickens have you gained?”
“I’ve gained something with Horrors. Notice the figure he cuts on the mound now?”
“And is that the price he’s paying for his job as captain of the crew?” demanded Midkiff scornfully.
“Whether he’s voluntarily and knowingly paying such price,” Kingdon rejoined evenly, “doesn’t really matter, does it, Jawn? I’ve got him about where I want him in baseball. Got him interested. I’d hold him if I can, and the rest of you fellows must help me.”
“What for?” snapped Midkiff.
“You know well enough,” was the cool response. “We need him.”
“At Walcott?”
“What a remarkable guesser you are!”
“You’ll never get him! He’s one of these swell-heads who think they know all there is to know, anyhow—and what’s the use of proving themselves either right or wrong by going to school any more?” Midkiff spoke bitterly. He could not like a fellow of Horace Pence’s caliber—or thought he could not.
“He was like that,” agreed Rex.
“I don’t see much change in him since the first day we struck this island. Only he has to be half way decent now, because you let him and his crowd stop here. Now you’d sacrifice the rowing in an attempt to win him over for a pitcher for Walcott Hall. Nothing to it, Rex.”
“There you go, Jawn,” sighed Kingdon. “You’ve got the habit, too. Yansey’s influence on this bunch is something awful. You’re all talking just as he does.”
“Quit fooling,” grunted Midkiff. “What are we laying ourselves out on this rowing business for if nothing’s to come of it?”
“Getting good practice, aren’t we?” asked Rex. “Only I never did go into a game before without having a feeling of expectation.”
“If you expect to win with Horrors as captain of the crew, you’ll get specks in your eyes.”
“Will I? Well, we’ll see. You’re so helpful, Jawn, when a chap has a hard nut to crack. Thanks.”
“Oh!” cried Midkiff, throwing up both hands. “You always go your own gait anyway, Rex.”
Which was true in this instance. Kingdon had to solve the problem himself, and he proceeded to go about it by sailing over to Blackport at the first opportunity and putting it into Yansey’s mind to challenge the Storm Island crew for a trial match the first week in August.
Kingdon kept his own counsel about this, but the next day a motor boat halted long enough at the island for a note to be passed to Horace Pence, embodying the challenge and suggesting that the sound, in the quiet waters off the island, be the scene of the proposed match.
For once, Pence showed a measure of uncertainty. He went off by himself, evidently to study on the matter. It was almost supper time when he strolled back by the way of the Walcott Hall camp, and hailed Rex Kingdon.
“Say, Curly,” he said to the backstop, “I’ve been fishing, and I got a bite.”
“Who’s bit you?” asked Kingdon lightly.
“Kirby. And he’s always been such a household pet that it’s surprised me, even if it didn’t hurt me much,” Pence explained with some gloom. “It’s about that rolling stone that came near gathering up all you chaps as a new species of moss.”
“Sayest thou so?” was Kingdon’s interested comment. “Let’s hear the worst.”
“He does suspect, at least, how that avalanche started; but he refuses to give me his confidence.”
“Yes?” encouraged Rex.
“Owned up to me last night that he and the Indian camped down there at Clay Head through all that rain.”
“We knew that already.”
“But Harry hadn’t admitted it before. I put it to him straight if he and Joe left that canoe and came over here during the night.”
“Well?”
“Swore he didn’t leave the canoe,” said Pence, anxiety betrayed in his voice. “Harry’s more than ordinarily truthful—so I’ve always found him. Don’t you suppose that the bowlder might have been washed out by the rain, after all?”
“The rain wouldn’t have washed the lever out of the woods and down the hill into the field behind the place where the bowlder lay.”
“Hardly!” agreed Pence, startled by this reasoning.
“Kirby says he didn’t leave the canoe all night?”
“That’s what he says,” was the reply.
Kingdon added nothing to what he had already said until finally, with a sigh dismissing the puzzle for the time being, Pence offered him the letter he had received from the skipper of the Nothing To It. “What do you think of this?” Horace asked.
Kingdon read the challenge with as much apparent interest as though the matter was an utter surprise to him. It was plain that Pence was nervous—a nervousness not attributable to their former topic of conversation.
“The nerve of them!” said Kingdon. “They’ve been rowing together all season, and we’re just beginning to get our crowd into shape.”
“But we can’t refuse,” Pence hastened to say.
“No,” Rex agreed.
“But—but—Kingdon! Suppose they lick us out of our boots?”
“What’s the odds? It’ll show the boys just about how bad—or good we are.”
“It will discourage them if we’re beaten,” Pence said. “Haven’t practiced enough to make sure of giving a good account of ourselves.”
“Never know how good we are till we try a race with a real crew, and Yansey’s got the best one along the coast—let him tell it.”
“I know. He’s an awful blowhard.”
“But maybe he has got the best crew,” chuckled Rex.
“Yet you say to accept it?”
“I say nothing. You’re the skipper. You don’t need anybody to decide for you. If you feel you do, put it to the vote of the crew.”
“Oh! Our fellows will be eager for it,” sighed Horace.
“Fancy our fellows won’t mind a try-out, either,” was Kingdon’s cheerful rejoinder.
“Then I might as well say ‘Yes,’ but between now and then we’ve got to do some training.”
“We’re with you, Horrors,” Rex assured him. “We’ll win if we can.” He felt in secret more serious doubt of winning than even Pence showed in his countenance.