CHAPTER XIV.
THE RACE--THE START.
The Winnequa-Yahara race was open to all boats of the respective clubsunder forty feet, each boat with a beam one-fifth the water-linelength. It was to be a five-mile contest, each end of the course markedby a stake boat anchored at each end of Fourth Lake. The stake boat,with the judges, was to be moored off Maple Bluff. From this boat theracers would start, round the other stake boat, and finish at thestarting point.
Furthermore, although the race was open to all members of the tworespective clubs with boats under the extreme length, there was amutual agreement, from the beginning, that one member of each clubshould be commissioned to provide the boat to be entered in thecontest. Inasmuch as a speed boat costs money, it was natural that thesons of rich men should be told off to carry the honors.
Mr. Merton and Mr. Lorry were both millionaires. They were known to beindulgent fathers, and it had not been foreseen that Mr. Lorry wouldrebel, at first, against George's extravagance.
But George had gone too far. Mr. Lorry, even at that, might have paidfor George's $5,000 hydroplane had he understood that his son wasbearing the Yahara honors on his own shoulders and had been lured intoextravagance by a misguided notion of his responsibility.
However, this initial misunderstanding, with all its disastrousentanglements, was a thing of the past. Both Mr. Lorry and George hadburied it deep, and were meeting each other in a closer relationshipthan they had ever known before.
The struggle for the De Lancey cup had become, to Madison, what thefight for the America Cup had become to the United States. Only, inthe case of the De Lancey cup, the city was divided against itself.
The entire population had ranged itself on one side or the other.
The gun that started the race was to be fired at 2 o'clock, but earlyin the forenoon launches began passing through the chain of lakes, andthrough the canal and locks that led to the scene of the contest.
The distance had already been measured and the stake boats placed.All along the course buoys marked the boundaries. Later there were tobe police boats, darting here and there to see that the boundary linewas respected and the course kept clear. Through this lane of water,hemmed in by craft of every description, the two boats were to speed tovictory or defeat.
Observers, however, did not confine themselves to the boats. Thecottages on Maple Bluff, and the surrounding heights, offered splendidvantage ground for sightseers. Early in the forenoon automobilesbegan moving out toward Maple Bluff, loaded with passengers. And eachautomobile carried a hamper with lunch for those who traveled with it.Most of the citizens made of the event a picnic affair.
The asylum grounds also held their quota of sightseers with operaglasses or more powerful binoculars; and Governor's Island, and theshore all the way around to Picnic Point.
The day was perfect. Fortunately for the many craft assembled, the windwas light, and what little there was was not from the west. Fourth Lakewas to be as calm as a pond.
Steadily, up to 1 o'clock, the throng of sightseers afloat and ashorewas added to.
The sixty-five-foot motor yacht, serving as stake boat at the startingand finishing point, was boarded by Mr. Lorry and Ethel. The judgeswere from both clubs, and so the boat was given over to the use of alimited number of Winnequas and Yaharas and their partisans.
As Mr. Lorry and Ethel came over the side of the yacht they weregreeted by a tall, gray-haired man and a stout, middle-aged lady.
"Why, Merton!" exclaimed Mr. Lorry. "You had to get back in time forthe race, eh? Madam," and he doffed his hat to the lady at Merton'sside, "I trust I find you well?"
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Lorry," replied Mrs. Merton. "How are you,my dear?" and the lady turned and gave her hand to Ethel.
"There's where they start and finish, Lorry," said Mr. Merton, pointingto the port side of the boat. "Bring up chairs and we'll pre?mpt ourplaces now."
When the four were all comfortably seated, a certain embarrassment bornof the fact that each man was there to watch the performance of hisson's boat crept into their talk.
"Will George be in his boat?" inquired Mr. Merton, taking a glancearound at the gay bunting with which the assembled craft were dressed.
"No," said Mr. Lorry.
"Ollie will be in _his_ launch," and there was ever so small a taunt inthe words.
"Ollie's boat is bigger than George's, Merton," answered the othermildly. "George's driver figured that an extra hundred-and-forty poundshad better stay out of the _Sprite_."
"Who drives for George?"
"Motor Matt."
Mr. Merton was startled.
"Why," said he, "I thought he was hurt in that boathouse fire andcouldn't be out of bed?"
"He's hurt, and only one-handed, but he's too plucky to stay out of therace."
"Probably," said Mr. Merton coolly, "the pay he receives is quite anitem. I understand Motor Matt is poor, and out for all the money he canget."
"You have been wrongly informed, Merton. Not a word as to what he shallreceive has passed between George and Motor Matt. The boys are friends."
"I'd be a little careful, if I were you, how I allowed my son to pickup with a needy adventurer."
"Motor Matt is neither needy nor an adventurer," said Mr. Lorry warmly."I'm proud to have George on intimate terms with him."
"Oh, well," laughed Mr. Merton; "have a cigar."
Ethel was having a conversation along similar lines with Mrs. Merton,and she was as staunchly upholding Motor Matt as was her father. Soearnestly did the girl speak that the elder lady drew back and eyed herthrough a lorgnette.
"Careful, my dear," said she.
Ethel knew what she meant, and flushed with temper. But both Ethel andher father, deep down in their hearts, pitied Mr. and Mrs. Merton. Ifthey had known of the unscrupulous attack their son had caused to bemade on Motor Matt, they would perhaps have spoken differently--or notat all.
Fortunately, it may be, for the four comprising the little party, aband on a near-by cruising boat began to play.
Then, a moment later, a din of cheers rolled over the lake.
"There's Ollie!" cried Mrs. Merton, starting up excitedly to flutterher handkerchief.
Yes, the _Dart_ was coming down the open lane, having entered thecourse from the boathouse, where she had been lying ever since earlymorning. She was a 25-foot boat, with trim racing lines, and she shotthrough the water in a way that left no doubt of her speed.
"How's that?" cried Mr. Merton, nudging Mr. Lorry with his elbow."Nearly everybody was expecting the _Wyandotte_, and just look whatwe're springing on you!"
"She looks pretty good," acknowledged Mr. Lorry.
"Well, I should say so!"
"But not good enough," went on Mr. Lorry.
"Have you got five thousand that thinks the same way?"
"No, Merton. I quit betting a good many years ago."
The _Dart_ raced up and down the course, showing what she could do inshort stretches, but not going over the line for a record. Halloran,the red-haired driver of the _Dart_, and Ollie Merton were fine-lookingyoung fellows in their white yachting caps, white flannel shirts, andwhite duck trousers.
From time to time Mr. Lorry consulted his watch, checking off thequarter hours impatiently and wondering why Motor Matt and the _Sprite_did not put in an appearance. Could it be possible that Matt had notbeen able to leave the house on Yankee Hill, after all? If he was ableto be out, then why didn't he come along and give the _Sprite_ a littlewarming up?
The boat had not had an actual try-out since the changes had been madein her.
Mr. Lorry did not realize that it was too late, then, for a try-out;nor did he know that Matt was saving himself for the contest, and notintending to reach the course much before the time arrived for thestarting gun to be fired.
Five minutes before two a little saluting gun barked sharply from theforward deck of the stake boat.
"I guess your boat isn't coming, Lorry," said Mr. Merton. "Th
ere's onlyfive minutes left for----"
The words were taken out of his mouth by a roaring cheer from down theline of boats. The cheer was caught up and repeated from boat to boatuntil the whole surface of the lake seemed to echo back the franticyells.
Mr. Lorry leaped to his feet and waved his hat, while Ethel sprang upin her chair and excitedly shook her veil.
For the _Sprite_ was coming!
Motor Matt, a little pale and carrying his right arm in a sling, camejogging down the wide lane toward the stake boat. There was a resolutelight in his keen, gray eyes, and his trained left hand performed itsmany duties unerringly.
The danger from which Matt had plucked the _Sprite_ at the burningboathouse was known far and wide, and it was his gameness in enteringthe race handicapped as he was that called forth the tremendous ovation.
Dexterously he passed the stake boat and brought the _Sprite_ slowlyaround for the start.
The _Sprite_ was charred and blistered, and, as McGlory had humorouslyput it, the "skin was barked all off her nose," because of hercollision with the water door; but there she was, fit and ready forthe race of her life.
She did not compare favorably with the handsome _Dart_; but then,beauty is only skin deep. It's what's inside of a boat, as well as of aman, that counts.
Slowly the boats manoeuvred, waiting for the gun. The silence wasintense, breathless. Then----
Bang!
The little saluting gun puffed out its vapory breath. Matt could beseen leaning against the wheel, holding it firm with his body while hisleft hand played over the levers.
It was a pretty start. Both the _Sprite_ and the _Dart_ passed thestake boat neck and neck.
"They're off," muttered Lorry, with a wheeze, drawing a handkerchiefover his forehead.
It is nothing to his discredit that his hand shook a little.
"Oh, dad," whispered Ethel, clasping her father's arm, "didn't he lookfine and--and determined? I know he'll win, I just _know_ it."
"Say, Lorry," asked Mr. Merton, "who's that youngster over there onthat launch--the one that's making such a fool of himself."
"That?" asked Mr. Lorry, squinting in the direction indicated. "Oh,that's my nephew, McGlory. But don't blame him for acting the fool--Ifeel a little inclined that way myself."
Motor Matt's Prize; or, The Pluck That Wins Page 14