Evening Star Newspaper, September 8, 1929, Page 101

D. C,. SEPTEMBER 8 1929 1 { /;n 0. Henry moment, the girl sighed, touched the self- starter and drove away. Deacon’s mood was pitiable. Iiis mind was & mass of whirling thoughts in the midst of which he could recognize pictures of his bry. hood, a little boy doing many things—with a hand always tucked within the fingers of a great big man who could always explain all the mysteries of the big, strange, booming world. There were many such pictures, pictures not only relating to boyhood, but to his own strug- gle at Baliol, t- the placid little home in Phila- delphia and all that it had meant, all that it still meant, to his father, to his mother, to him, Any act of his that would bring sorrow or dis- may or the burden of defeated hope to that home! X But on the other hand, the morrow was to bring him the crown of toilsome years, was to make his name one to conjure with wherever Baliol was loved or known. He knew what the varsity cachet would do for his prospects in the world. And after all, he had his own life to live, had he not? Would not the selfish, or rather the rigorous, settlement of this problem, be for the best in the end, since his making good would simply be making good for his father and his mother? But how about his father’s chance for making good on his own account? ’I"HERE was something unreal to Deacon about the morning. It was difficult for Jim Deacon to look upon the bronzed fellows about the breakfast table, and realize that for- ever where loyal men of Baliol gather he would be an outcast, a pariah. That was what he would be—an outcast. Out of all the welter of thought and travail had been resolved one dominant idea. His father . came first; there was no evading it. With all the consequences that would follow the execu- tion of his decision he was familiar. He had come now to knew what Baliol meant to him as a place not only of education, but a place to be loved, honored, revered. He knew what his future might be. But his father came first. Arising from the breakfast table, he spoke to but one man, Junior Doane, “Doane,” he said, drawing him to one side, “you will row at stroke this afternoon.” The man stared at him. “Are you crazy, Deacon?” “No, not crazy. all.” “But look here, Deacon—you want to see the coach. Wait here just a minute.” As Doane hurried away in search of Dr. Nicholls, Deacon turned blindly through the yard and so out to the main road. He was striding along in the middle of the road when the horn of a mot-r car coming close behind startled him. As he turned, the vehicle stopped with a grinding of brakes, Dr. Nicholls, the coach, rose to his full height in the roadster and glared down at Deacon, ‘While Junior Doane, who had been driving, stared fixedly over the wheel, The coach’s Voice was merely a serles of profane roars. He paused as Junior Doane placed an admonish- ing hand upon his arm. “I beg your pardon, doctor; but I don't think that is the right way. May I say some- thing to Deacon?” “Look here, Jim Deacon, we've come to take you back. You can't buck out the race this way, you know. It isn’t done. Now, wait a minute!” he cried sharply as the boy in the road made to speak. “I know why you ran away. Jane Bosiwick called me up and told me evergthing. She hadn't realized quite what she was doing——" I'm not feeling well; that's : 13 SN - e R Y / g/ . as Deacon regarded him, puzzled, “is, would it break your heart to lose?” “She—she bungled everything.” “Bungled;! What do you mean, Dr. Nicholls?” “Nothing—nothing! You young idiot, don't you realize you're trying to kill yourself for life? Jump into the car.” “I'm not going to row.” Deacon's eyes smoldered. ” Studying him a moment, Dr. Nicholls sud- denly grasped the seriousness of Deacon’s mood. He leaped from the car and walked up to him, placing a hand upon his shoulder. “Look here, my boy, you've let a false ideal run away with you. Do you realize that some 25,000 people throughout this country are hav- ing their interests tossed away by you. There are thousands who have the right to ask us that Shelburne is not permitted to win this afternoon. Do you realize your response——" Deacon raised his band. “I've heard it said often, Dr. Nicholls, that any one who gets in Cephas Doane’s way gets crushed. I'm not afraid of him, nor of any one else, on my own account; but I'm afraid of him because of my father. My father is getting to be an old man. Do you think I am going to do anything——" Deacon’s voice, which had been gathering in intensity, broke suddenly. He couldn’t go on. “Jim Deacon!” There was a note of ex- hiliaration in Junior Doane’s voice. He hastily climbed out of the car and joined the coach at Deacon’s side. “I'm not going to defend my father now. No one knows him as I do. He and I have always been close and—" “Then you know how he’'d feel about any one who took your place in the boat. He can break my father's heart—-" “But not if you can win out against Shel- burne. Can’t you see your chance, Deacon? Go in and beat Shelburne; father’ll be so glad he’ll fall off the observation train. You know how he hates Shelburne. Don't you get it?” “And if we lose—" “If we lose, there’s the chance that we're all in the soup.” “I'm not, if I keep out of this thing——" “If we lose with me at stroke, do you sup- pose it will help you or any one related to you with my father when he learns that Baliol would probably have won with you stroking? “My Lord, Jim Deacon,” Doane went on as the other did not reply, “do you suppose this is any fun for me, arguing with.you to swing an oar this afternoon when I would give my heart’s blood to swing it in your place?” “Why do you do it, then?” “Why do I do im Because I love Baliol, Because her interests stand above mine. Be- cause more than anything I want to see her win. I didn’t feel this way when you beat me out for stroke. It all came to me when you bucked out. Baliol is all that counts, Jim. I—I—" Doane’s voice faltered. “But I can't: that’s all. Baliol needs a better man—needs you. You go in—and win.” “Win!” Jim Deacon stood in the road, rigid, his voice falling to a whisper. “Win!” Into his eyes came a vacant expression. Then the coach placed his hand upon Deacon's arm, gently. “Come, Jim,” he said. THE afternoon had gone silently on. Jim Deacon sat on the veranda of the crew quarters, his eyes fixed upon the river. Some of the crew were trying to read; others lounged about talking in low voices. Occasionally the referee’s launch would appear off the float, the official exchanging scme words with the coach while the oarsmen watched eagerly. Would the upriver brecze never subside and Prize Story }4 B give them conditions that would be satisfactory to the meticulous referee? Word came shortly after five o'clock. coach, with solemn face, came up to the cot- tage, bringing the summons. After that for a little while Jim Deacon passed through a series of vague impressions rather than living experi- ence. As the shell swept around a point of land, & volume of sound rolled across the waters. Out of the corner of his eye he caught view of the long observation train, vibrant with animation, the rival colors commingled so that all em- blem of collegiate affiliation was lost in a merger of quivering hue. A hill near the starting line on the other side of the river was black with spectators. Suddenly as Jim Deacon swung forward, a moored skiff swept past his blade, the starting line. “Weigh all.” The coxswain’s command was immediately followed by others designed to work the boat back to proper starting position. Deacon could easily see the Shelburne crew now—big men all, ideal oarsmen to look at. Now the Baliol shell had made sternway suffi- cient for the man in the skiff to seize the rudder. The Shelburne boat was already se- cured. - Astern hovered the referee’s boat, the official standing in the bow directing opera- tions. “Are you all ready, Baliol?” “Yes, sir.” Deacon, leaning forward, felt his arms grow tense. “Are you all ready, Shelburne?” The affirmative was followed by the s report of a pistol. With a snap of his wrist Deacon beveled his- oar, which bit cleanly into the water, and pulled. There followed an interval of hectic stroking, oars in and out of the water as fast as could be done, while spray rose in clouds and the coxswain screamed the measure of the beat. “Fine, Baliol.”” The coxswain's voice went past Deacon’s ear like a bullet. “Both away together and now a little ahead at 42 to the minute. But down now. Down—down— down—down! That's it—32 to the minute. It’s a leng race, remember. Shelburne’s drop- ping the beat, too. You listen to Papa, all of you; he’ll keep you wise. Shelburne’s hitting it up a bit. Make it 34.” “Not yet.” Deacon scowled at the tense little coxswain. “I'll do the timing.” Chick Seagraves nodded. “Right. Thirty-two.” Vaguely there came to Deacon a sound from the river bank—Shelburne enthusiasts acclaim- ing a lead of a neat half a length. “Too much—too much.” Deacon shook his head. Either Shelburne was setting out to row her rival down at the start, or else, as Deacon suspected, she was trying to smoke Baliol out, to learn at an early juncture just what mettle was in the rival boat. “Give 'em 10 at 36!” Deacon’s voice was thick with gathering effort. “Take it up, Chick.” From the coxswain’s throat issued a ma- chine-gun fusillade of whiplash words. “Ten, boys! A rouser now.- Ten! Come on. One—two—three—four—oh, boy! Are we walking! Five—six—are they anchored over there? Seven—oh, you big brown babies! Eight—Shelburne, good night—nine—wow!— 10!” Shelburne had met the spurt, but the drive of Baliol was not to be denied. Gradually the two prows came abreast, and then Deacon, not stopping at the call of 10, but fairly carrying the crew along with him, swung on with un- diminished ferocity, while Seagraves’ voice rose into a shrill crescendo of triumph as Baliol forged to the lead. It was in the third mile that the battle of wits and judgment had to be carried to con- clusion, the fourth mile lurking as a mere matter of staying power and ability to stand the gaff. Deacon’s idea was that at present his crew was leading because Shelburne was not unwilling for the present that this should be. How true this was became evident after the two-mile flags had passed, when the Shel- burne oarsmen began to lay to their strokes with tremendous drive, the boat creeping foot by foot upon the rival shell until the Baliol lead had been overcome and Shelburne herself swept to the fore. “Jim! They're doing 36—walking away.” The coxswain's face was white and drawn. But Deacon continued to pass up a 32 stroke while the Shelburne boat slid gradually away until at the three-mile mark there was a foot of clear water between its rudder and the prow of the Baliol shell. DEACON glanced at the coxswain. A mile to go—one deadly mile. “Thirty-six,” he said. “Shelburne’s can’t have much more left.” The time had passed for study now. Gritting his teeth, Deacon bent to his work, his eyes fixed upon the swaying body of the coxswain, whose sharp staccato voice snapped out the measure; the beat of the oars in the locks came as one sound. As in a dream Deacon “saw the Shelburne boat drift into view, saw the various oarsmen slide past until he and the rival stroke were rowing practically abeam. “That's for you, Dad,” he muttered—and ° smiled. He saw the men swing with quickened rhythm, saw the spray fly like bullets from the Shelburne blades. “Look out.” There was a note of anguish in Seagraves’ voice. “Shelburne’s spurting A malediction trembled upon Deacon'’s lips. So here was the joker held in reserve by the rival crew! Had Baliol anything left? Had he anything left? Grave doubt was mount- ing in his soul. Away swept the Shelburne boat inches at a stroke until the difference in their positions was nearly a length. ‘Three miles and a half! Nct an obssrver but be- y Lawrence Perr lieved that this grueling contest had been worked out. And now Deacon, exalted by soraething name« less, uttered a cry and began to give to Baliol more than he really had. Surely, steadily, he raised his stroke while his comrades, like the lion-hearts they were, took it up and put the sanction of common authority upon it. Thirty- four! Thirty-six! Not the spurt of physical prowess, but of indomitable mentality. “Up 've come!” Seagraves’ voice was shrill like a bugle. He could see expressions of stark fear in the faces of the rival oarsmen. They had given all they had to give, had given enough to win almost any race. But here in this race they had not given enough. “Less than a quarter of a mile, boys, In the stretch. Now—my God!” i Following the coxswain’s broken exclamation, Deacon felt an increased resistance upon his blade. . “Innis has carried away his oarlock.” ‘The eyes of the coxswain strained upon Deacon’s face. Deacon gulped. Strangely a picture of his father filled his mind. His face hardened, “All right! Tell him to throw his oar away and swing with .the rest. Don't move your rudder now. Keep it straight as long as you can.” From astern the sharp eyes of the Shelburne cox had detected the accident to Baliol's Nume ber Six. His voice was chattering stridently, Deacon, now doing the work practically of two men, was undergoing torture which shortly would have one of two effects. Either he would collapse or his spirit would carry him beyond the claims of overtaxed physique. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes—a groan escaped his lips. Then so far as personality, personal emotions, personal feelings were concerned, Jim Deacon ceased to function. He became merely o part of the mechanism of a great effort, the principal guiding part. And of all those rowing men of Baliol only the coxswain saw the Shelburne boat creeping up slowly, inexorably—eight men against seven. For nearly a quarter of a mile the grim fight was waged. - “Ten strokes more, boys!” TlerOWolflnShdbumetheumu & line with Baliol's Number Two. . “One—two—three—four—” The bow of Shelburne boat plunged up abeam Baliol's bow oar. mve—dx—ood. boys!—seven—" * Deacon’s sought the water, splashing the body of the man in front of him. Then suddenly a mahog- any launch dashed alongside. In the bow was a large man with white mustache and florid face and burning black eyes. His lips were drawn in a broad grin which seemed an anomaly upon the face of Cephas Doane. If so he' immediately . presented a still greater anomaly. He laughed aloud. : “Poor old Shelburne! I—George! The first In four years! I never saw anything quite lke that, We've talked of Baliol’s rowing-spirit—— eh! Here.youbaeon,letmeglvemnhl:nd “Dad!” busin “You did!” “Yes. Of course, your father was appointed. The only trouble was that Jane, bright and clever as she is, bungled her lines.” “Bungled!” Deacon’s fa¢e cleared. “That’s what Dr. Nicholls said about her on the road, the day I bucked out. somehow.” “She bungled, yes. She ‘vas to have made it very clear that by winning you would escape ur I knew you would row hard for Baliol, but I thought you might row superhumanly for your father.” then glanced E : “Well,” Jim Deacon fi ushed, my "lt his father—“you were right, sifw T (Copyright, 1929)° ° Modern Probleh in Icing QUESTION like the old one, “Which is the greater amount of ice.