Jack Ranger's Gun Club: or, From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail

“Hit it up a little, Jack!” called Sam. “You’ve got him breathing hard.”

“He has – not! I’m – I’m all right,” answered Dock from his boat, and very foolishly, too, for he was getting winded, and he needed to save all his breath, and not waste it in talking. Besides, the halting manner in which he answered showed his condition. Sam noticed it at once.

“You’ve got him! You’ve got him, Jack!” he cried exultantly. “Go on! Row hard!”

“Say, that ain’t fair!” cried Pud Armstrong.

“What isn’t?” asked Sam.

“Telling Jack like that. Let him find out about Dock.”

“I guess I know what’s fair,” replied Sam with a withering look. “I’ll call all I want to, and don’t you interfere with me, or it won’t be healthy for you.”

Pud subsided. Sam Chalmers was the foremost authority, among the students, on everything connected with games and sports, for he played on the football eleven, on the nine, and was a general leader.

“You’d better hit it up a bit, Dock,” was Glen Forker’s advice to his crony, as he saw Jack’s lead increasing. “Beat him good and proper.”

“He’ll have to get up earlier in the morning if he wants to do that,” commented Bony Balmore, as he cracked his big knuckles in his excitement.

And it was high time for Dock to do some rowing. Jack had not been unaware of his rival’s difficulty, and deciding that the best way to win the race would be to make a spurt and tire him out before the finish, he “hit up a faster clip,” the broad blades of the oars dipping into the water, coming out and going in again with scarcely a ripple.

“There he goes! There he goes!” cried Sam. “That’s the ticket, Jack!”

“Go on! Go on!” yelled Nat.

“Get right after him, Dock,” advised Pud.

“You can beat him! Do it!” cried Glen.

But it was easier said than done. Jack was rowing his best, and when our hero did that it was “going some,” as Sam used to say. He had opened up quite a stretch of water between his boat and Dock’s, and the bully, with a quick glance over his shoulder, seeing this, resolved to close it up and then pass his rival. There was less than a quarter of a mile to the finish, and he must needs row hard if he was to win.

Dock bent to the task. He was a powerfully built lad, and had he been in good condition there is no question but what he could have beaten Jack. But cigarette-smoking, an occasional bottle of beer, late hours and too much rich food had made him fat, and anything but an ideal athlete.

Still he had plenty of “row” left in him yet, as he demonstrated a few seconds later, when by increasing not only the number of his strokes per minute, but also putting more power into them, he crept up on Jack, until he was even with him.

Jack rowed the same rate he had settled on to pull until he was within a short distance of the finish. He was saving himself for a spurt.

Suddenly Dock’s boat crept a little past Jack’s.

“There he goes! There he goes!” cried Pud, capering about on the bank in delight. “What did I tell you?”

“He’ll win easy,” was Glen’s opinion.

“It isn’t over yet,” remarked Nat quietly, but he glanced anxiously at Sam, who shook his head in a reassuring manner.

Dock began to increase his lead. Jack looked over his shoulder for one glance at his rival’s boat. The two were now rowing well and swiftly.

“Go on, Jack! Go on! Go on!” begged Bony, cracking his eight fingers and two thumbs in rapid succession, like a battery of popguns. “Don’t let him beat you!”

Dock was now a boat’s length ahead, and rowing well, but a critical observer could notice that his breathing distressed him.

“Now’s your chance, Jack!” yelled Sam.

But Jack did not need any one to tell him. Another glance over his shoulder at his rival showed him that the time had come to make the spurt. He leaned forward, took a firmer grip on the ash handles, and then gave such an exhibition of rowing as was seldom seen at Washington Hall.

Dock saw his enemy coming, and tried to stave off defeat, but it was no use. He was completely fagged out. Jack went right past him, “as if Dock was standing still,” was the way Sam expressed it.

“Go on! Go on!” screamed Pud. “You’ve got to row, Dock!”

But Dock could not imitate the pace that Jack had set. He tried, but the effort was saddening. He splashed, and the oars all but slipped from his hands. His heart was fluttering like that of a wounded bird.

“You’ve got him! You’ve got him, Jack!” yelled Nat; and, sure enough, Jack Ranger had.

On and on he rowed, increasing every second the open water between his boat and his rival’s, until he shot past the Point, a winner by several lengths.

“That’s the way to do it!”

“I knew he’d win!”

“Three cheers for Jack Ranger!”

These, and other cries of victory, greeted our hero’s ears as he allowed his oars to rest on the water flat, while he recovered his wind after the heart-breaking finish.

“Well, Dock could beat him if he was in training,” said Pud doggedly.

“That’s what he could,” echoed Glen.

“Not in a thousand years!” was Nat’s positive assertion.

The boys crowded to the float that marked the finish of the course. Jack reached it first, and stepped out of his shell, being greeted by his friends. Then Dock rowed slowly up. His distress showed plainly in his puffy, white face.

He got out clumsily, and staggered as he clambered upon the float.

“Hard luck, old man,” said Jack good-humoredly.

“I don’t want your sympathy!” snapped Dock. “I’ll row you again, and I’ll beat you!”

Jack had held out his hand, but the bully ignored it. He turned aside, and whether the float tilted, or whether Snaith tottered because of a cramp in his leg, was never known, but he staggered for a moment, tried unsuccessfully to recover his balance, and then plunged into the lake at one of the deepest spots, right off the float.

CHAPTER II

THE NEW BOY

“There goes Dock!”

“Pull him out!”

“Yes, before he gets under the float!”