“Now we’ve got something to go on,” said Harry, as they walked along the road that skirts the shore.

“You mean, they’ve got something to go on, if your idea is right,” Gordon corrected. “Think the sun’s coming out, Harry.”

The belated sun was indeed breaking through the clouds. Harry saw from his map that there was but one stream emptying into the lake between them and Port Henry, and on reaching this they found that it was not suitable for even a motor-dory.

They had no intention of making inquiries in the village, their plan being now to go up the lake shore till they found a boat, or boats, moored, or streams to explore. They would march straight through the village as if they did not know it was there.

“I understand we’re not to recognize Port Henry, Kid?”

“We’ll snub it, Harry. We don’t want to get any directions at the last minute.”

But Port Henry had something to say about this. She was not in the habit of having people pass by without acknowledging her, and just at this particular time she was putting on her holiday clothes. She always makes a great splurge in the summer, and in the winter rolls herself up like a bear and goes to sleep.

It was well on in the afternoon when Harry and Gordon came in sight of the town and decided to pitch their shelter in a little grove till morning. For Gordon was too weary to go farther. As night came on, they could see the lights of the village in the distance, and they busied themselves speculating what the morrow might bring forth.

Harry looked at Gordon critically. “Do you feel you need some meat, old man? How are you, weak?”

“No. Just tired. I’m going to turn in early.”

“I’ll try for a rabbit if you say, Kid, but I’d rather not. If you’re weak, just say so, and I’ll find you something hearty.”

“Bacon and cereal will do for me, Harry.”

“All right, then. Sit where you are—I’m going to learn that trick of yours, making a fire. Here, get under the shelter and stuff these cushions back of you. You’re all in, old man; take it easy now.”

“Harry, this may be the last supper you and I’ll have together.”

“Like enough, if we’re lucky.”

“To-morrow’s the Fourth of July.”

“So it is!”

“I kind of wish we’d have a few days more of it, Harry.”

“Why? Suppose you open up that egg powder—sit still now.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Gordon; “I—I—kind of like being alone with you, Harry.”

“Same with me, Kid.”

“I hope you’ll never move away from Oakwood, Harry.”

“Not much danger of that; our house was built by my grandfather. Look here, Kid, I know what’s the matter with you—you’re just dead tired.”

“Your father might put up a new house somewhere else, like Mr. Danforth.”

“No sirree! We all think too much of the old shack; and anyway, if he did, there’d be a room for the Black Ranger, all right, no matter where it was. We’d think of a way, Kiddo.”

“I don’t know how it is, Harry, I seem to learn things from you without your teaching them to me—I just learn them.”

“Nonsense!”

“Don’t you think one fellow can learn better from another than from some one else? I mean, Harry, if you think a whole lot of a fel—a person, why, you’d learn more from him than—Now, I’ll never smoke a cigarette after what you said, Harry, and it wasn’t like a lesson at all.”

“Guess you’ll never learn much from me, old man—Hand me the saucepan, will you?”

“My father thinks I will—and anyway, I’m glad I’m in your patrol.”

“Well, the patrol wouldn’t part with G. Lord for a seagoing yacht.”

“Just the same, I’d like to be alone with you a little longer, Harry, honest, I would.—I heard Red Deer tell my father how important it is in camping to find pure water. He said fellows about the age of the older ones in our troop are liable to typhoid fever. I hope you’ll never get that, Harry.”

“Kid, you’re a great old boy.”

“Let’s feel your muscle, will you, Harry?”

Harry went over, smiling, and bent his arm slowly back and forth.

“My, you wouldn’t think a fellow as thin as you would have a muscle like that, Harry.”

Harry laughed outright, and doubling his fist, thrust it gently into the younger boy’s upturned face.

The next morning they went into Port Henry, and found the village in gala attire. It was their purpose to hire a canoe, and continue their explorations along the shore and up the smaller streams. This would be easier than mountain-climbing (of which Harry thought Gordon had had enough), and since there was now some reason to expect to find camp along the shore, a little paddling about, as Harry said, would not go half bad.

“Port Henry’s dressed up as if she was going to graduate,—hey, Kid?”

“She certainly has her pink sash on. I wonder what’s up.”

The town was resplendent in bunting festoons and streamers, and every store and house had its flag. The national emblem, of course, predominated, but here and there hung a triangular, purple flag showing the letters M B C in white, with an anchor beneath.

Most of the stores were closed, and there was a general air of holiday festivity among the little groups that talked excitedly here and there. The city people were in festive array. Tennis-shirted and sneaker-shod young gentlemen lolled about.

“Cracky!” said Gordon, “the shoe business must be good here.”

“Yes,” Harry answered. “I don’t suppose there was ever a shoe box but was doomed to carry sandwiches sometime or other. There are a lot of folks here from out of town.”

Presently they were reading a big poster in one of the windows:

“Looks as if there were going to be some doings,” said Harry.

“Not much chance of getting hold of a canoe to-day, I’m afraid,” commented Gordon.

They sauntered up the main street, and could not fail to notice that several people turned and stared at them. Harry thought it was because of their rather battered and disheveled appearance. As they passed the post-office, a little crowd of city fellows called tauntingly after them.

“There’s a couple of them, now,” said one.

“Hurrah for the Boy Spouts!” another shouted. “Sh-h-h!” said another. “They’re on the trail of a deer—don’t disturb them!”

Gordon glanced back, laughing cheerfully at his own expense, and noticed that one of the fellows had a flag with the words WELDEN SCHOOL on it, and that several others wore pale blue sweaters bearing a W on the chest.

“Them chaps is goin’ to win the regetty,” volunteered a black-coated man near by, who looked pathetically uncomfortable in his gala attire. “They’re champion experts.”

“Bully for them,” said Harry, cheerily.

Presently, as they passed a pleasant cottage, a woman with a battalion of small children turned in at the gate.

“Give me the key,” they heard her say to one of the boys.

“I haven’t got it.”

“Who has?”

It appeared that none of them had.

“Well,” said the woman, in despair, “we’re locked out, then. I told you to put the key in your pocket.”

“So I did.”

“Well, where is it, then?”

“You told me I could leave off my jacket—it’s in my jacket pocket.”

The woman stood frowning.

“Could we do anything to help you?” said Harry, vaulting the low fence and standing, hat in hand, before her. Gordon followed and stood beside him.

“I’m afraid not,” said she. “We’re locked out; it’s most exasperating. John, you’ll have to run straight down to Mr. Berry’s and tell him to come right up.”

“Just wait a minute, please,” said Harry. “Maybe we can think of some way to get in. All the windows are locked, I suppose?” He stepped out a little and saw that a window above the doorway was open. From its sill a flagpole projected.

“You can never get in there,” said the woman.

“Is that a hammock hook on that tree?” Harry asked.

“Yes.”

“The hammock doesn’t happen to be outdoors anywhere, does it?”

The hammock was found to be behind the house, and Harry carried it to the front doorway. The hammock itself, together with its two ropes, formed a line perhaps twelve feet long, which was easily thrown over the inner end of the pole. In a moment Harry had swung himself up to the flagpole and reaching down from it was carefully brushing off the dust which his feet had left on the flag. The woman watched him with an amused smile.

“That’s one of the first things we scouts have to learn,” Gordon told her,—“respect for the flag.”

Presently Harry opened the front door. The woman was very profuse in her thanks.

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” said Harry. “You know, I used to be a burglar,” he added, laughing.

“But you must come in,” she said. “I’m sure you’re strangers. What can I do to repay you?”

She insisted upon their following her into the cozy little sitting-room. “It was nothing at all,” Harry said. “But if we might ask a favor, perhaps you’d be willing to let us clean up a bit here. My friend—well, I’m really ashamed of him—the fact is, we’ve been mountaineering.”

Might they? Indeed they might! And they must also stay and have some lunch. No, she would hear of nothing else.

It is a scout’s duty to be polite and not to gainsay a lady, so they—well, they stayed, in obedience to Section 5, Scout Law.

When they thanked her and started forth from her hospitable roof, they were quite presentable. She had insisted upon sewing several buttons on Gordon’s uniform, all of which he had unearthed from various pockets, and after a sponging process, he came forth glowing and immaculate.

They had also learned something regarding the day’s program. Four rowing crews were entered for a contest,—Plattsburgh, Port Henry, and a crew of boys from the Welden School who were summering at Port Henry. The Welden School was somewhere over in Vermont, or Massachusetts, she thought. Then there was also another crew “from down lake somewheres,” but she guessed the Welden boys would have things their own way. She didn’t care much who won “s’long’s nobody got drowned.”

The boys thanked her again and started for the seat of war. They found both shores lined with people as far down as they could see. Harry had hoped to get a glimpse of the racing craft and size up the contesting crews, but the dense throng surrounding the boat-house and float made this impossible.

“Come on,” said he, “there’s nothing doing here. Let’s get down to the finish. I don’t believe they’ll pull more than a mile.”

They started down the road which skirted the shore, working their way through a labyrinth of buckboards and three-seated stages and throngs of spectators. Overhead, the sky was cloudless, and the sun poured hotly down upon an army of parasols. Out in the lake it touched the still water with gold, and here a little motor-dory, flying the boat-club’s colors, chugged about, warning encroaching canoes off the course. It seemed to be a thankless task, for as fast as one was driven back another darted forward, until the busy, important little boat reminded one of the old woman who lived in a shoe. Down at the finish, the throng expanded into a seething mass. So close together were canoes and dories that they seemed to form a solid float. On the shore, carriages and autos were drawn up. The whole countryside had turned out in holiday attire.

Through this dense mass the boys managed, by a series of maneuvers, to reach the shore, and soon stood at a point where they had an open view up the river. The little official boat came chugging down past them, and boldly essayed the task of ordering a handsome steam yacht to get beyond the finish line.

“We’re not on the course,” shouted its captain.

“Yes, you are, sir,” answered the official bouncer; “you’ll have to get downstream.”

The boys listened to this dispute, which was within a few feet of them, with a good deal of curiosity, for there is nothing so interesting as an altercation in a public place, when suddenly there was a frantic waving from the deck of the yacht.

“Why, there’s Miss Crosby!” exclaimed Gordon.

They waved their caps to her, and she suddenly disappeared. Evidently, she had issued her orders, for the yacht, in utter defiance of rules and regulations, was brought alongside a neighboring pier, and the crowd, no doubt much impressed with its gorgeous appearance, for it was a glittering combination of white and brass, opened to let the two boys pass down and go aboard.

“The idea!” said Miss Crosby, as she greeted them. “I never knew such downright tyranny! That’s the only thing to call it! They seem to think they own the lake!”

“I’m afraid it looks as if we thought that,” said a genial voice, and the boys turned in surprise to see Mr. Danforth coming toward them with outstretched hand. “But we couldn’t pass right by you. Miss Crosby said—”

“Oh, I never said anything of the kind!”

“He probably just deduced it,” laughed Harry, “whatever it was.”

Mr. Danforth chuckled; he had evidently heard about their “deducing.” “Well,” said he, cheerily, “who’s going to win the race?”

“We don’t even know the program,” said Harry. “We just dropped into town.”

“Still hunting?” laughed Mr. Danforth.

“Still hunting,” said Harry.

“Well, well, you must take an afternoon off and explain the events to us; we’ve been hearing more about you from this young lady.” The young lady gave him a very severe scowl, but it did not deter him in the least. “She’s been very much interested in your trip, and we’ve been comparing notes about you. Now, here we are, met again, all hands around St. Paul’s, as you might say. By Jove, I’m sorry Pen isn’t here! Come aft and let me introduce you to our little party.”

The yacht had now steamed out of forbidden territory. Mr. Danforth led the boys to an awning-covered stretch of deck, strewn with oriental rugs and comfortable wicker chairs. The party consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Danforth and their daughters, Miss Antoinette and her mother, and a couple of gentlemen from the city.

“Well, now,” said their host, “I don’t believe I’ll have the courage to tell Pen we saw you. You’ll have to go home with us—that’s the only way.”

“Mr. Danforth was just saying,” his wife continued, “that he wouldn’t dare tell Pen there was an aeroplane flight; but, I declare, I believe he’ll be even more disappointed at not seeing you.”

“Well, probably there won’t be any flight,” said one of the gentlemen; “there usually isn’t.”

“That’s so,” said Mr. Danforth; “the weather clerk finds it pretty hard to suit an aviator. Now there isn’t a breath stirring to-day, and the sailing race is off on account of the calm; but you just wait and see if this fellow doesn’t come out with the statement that there’s too much wind.”

“Well,” said the other gentleman, “as I understand it, an aviator sometimes means the air above—some distance up. They say the air is always in more rapid circulation up a ways. And then, there are what they call pockets of air—sometimes it’s full of those things up above when it’s calm down here.”

“Something like Gordon’s pockets, here, I suppose,” interpolated Harry; “full of all sorts of junk—gusts of wind, odds and ends of squalls, and things like that. I suppose those things would play the mischief with an aeroplane. I don’t know much about the subject myself.”

“He does, too,” said Gordon.

“Kind of atmospheric spasms,” said Mr. Danforth.

“Something like that,” answered his friend. “There’s a kind of little fan they shoot up in the air which will often give them an idea how things are up there—they’ve got to be careful.”

“No life-saving stations up there,” laughed Mr. Danforth. “Well, I just wish you could see Pen’s new model, Harry. The motor actually does go for nearly a minute. It’s the most ingenious thing I ever saw. By Jove, if the little fellow doesn’t win that contest, I believe it’ll kill him! He’s just counting the days till we get to Oakwood.”

The conversation was interrupted by the muffled sound of cheering along the shore. The yacht was brought around so that the deck aft commanded a vista of smooth water, reflecting in long perspective its bordering rows of waiting spectators, and the party had an unobstructed view up the course. Far up the shore, flags and caps were waving, showing that the first heat had begun.

The judge’s launch chugged around under the yacht’s stern and out into midstream. The patrol boat, with a great deal of racket, made a final cruise driving back unruly canoes and punts. Neighboring boats which gloried in the possession of whistles, began tooting them. There was a general bustle of suspense and expectation. The cheering up the course rolled nearer like a wave. A gay little dory, containing a dozen fellows in pale blue sweaters, who were shouting a club or school yell, shot across the course, in laughing defiance of the judge, and took an advantageous position.

“Hurrah for Welden!” shouted some one.

“Those boys are going to win in a walk,” called a voice under the yacht’s rail. “They’re college trained.”

Far up the course, two slender craft shot into view. Harry took the glass from Mr. Danforth and saw that one of them was leading by more than a length. As they neared, the space between them steadily increased. He handed the glass to Miss Crosby. “The crew on the left are rowing ragged,” he told her.

“They may catch up,” she said excitedly. “Just see how they splash!”

“’Fraid not,” Harry answered. “It’s all over. It was won before it began.”

It was certainly won long before it was finished. Amid excited cheering and frantic waving of flags, a single boat glided past the finish line. The other crew had gone to pieces up the course.

“Who are those that won?” Mr. Danforth called over the rail to one of the boats that were clustered thick under the yacht’s stern.

“The college boys,” some one answered. “Plattsburgh crew stopped to fish.”

“I don’t believe they did,” said the girl, incredulously.

“No, I don’t either; there isn’t any good fishing up there,” said Harry, soberly.

“Who ought I to cheer for?” she asked, surveying the party.

“Well, I guess those college boys are right in your line,” Harry said. “They’re certainly first-class oarsmen. I believe they come from somewhere over in Massachusetts, don’t they? What’s that their friends are waving?”

Amid much laughter, the blue-sweater crowd had hoisted a great banner above their little craft, on which was printed in charcoal:

There were loud congratulations from the occupants of this launch to the victorious crew, whom they boisterously pulled into their craft. The two heroes, who, it was plain to see, were crack rowers, joined them in a most complicated and idiotic conglomeration of rah, rah, rahs, cisses, booms, and the usual vocabulary of victorious athletes.

But the program had taken on a new interest for Harry and Gordon, and they awaited the next heat with some suspense. To be sure, it was likely enough that a town the size of Plattsburgh would have a troop of scouts, or, for that matter, there might be a troop even in such a little village as Port Henry. But the Oakwood boys had never given this a thought, until now it appeared that a crew of scouts was to row in the second trial.

“That’s a pretty good one on you boys,” laughed Mr. Danforth, referring to the placard. “What scouts do they mean, anyway?”

“You’ve got me,” said Harry. “I don’t know; there must be a troop, or at least, a patrol, organized somewhere round here. They’ll never outrow that blue-sweater crowd, I can tell you that.”

“Well, that’s a good taunt, anyway,” Mr. Danforth laughed.

“I think it’s insulting,” said Miss Crosby; “and it’s perfectly dreadful poetry.”

By a series of inquiries among the jubilant throng below, the party succeeded in learning that the next heat was to be between the Port Henry boys and some boy scouts from somewhere.

The moments seemed long before the excitement along the shore told that the second pair of contestants were coming down the course. Soon they shot into view, gliding abreast, as it seemed, with the little power-boat of the referee close in their wake. Harry studied the crews with his glasses, as the rise and fall of the oars became discernible.

“They’re walking along, all right,” he said, handing Gordon the glass. “Can you make out their flags?”

They had left the three-quarters flag behind them, and the moving backs of the rowers and the long sweep of the oars were plainly visible. The rowing seemed mechanical—perfect. Each shell held its way wonderfully between strokes. Neither bow swerved, but they came down through the cheering, frantic crowds like two arrows. The flags, fluttering behind, afforded no hint to those at the finish line, but as the shells neared, loud shouts went up for Port Henry, and many flags were waved.

A clumsy-looking motor-boat shot out from the shore, and followed in the wake of the referee’s boat, as close as it dared. It held several people, notably a man in white. The party on the yacht watched breathlessly as the oars rose dripping from the water, paused a fraction of a second in air, then plunged silently, uniformly, into the sun-flecked lake.

Far forward, far backward, leaned each crew with mathematical precision, as the shells, side by side, sped on. Then one crept forward.

“They’re hitting it up,” said Harry, as deafening yells rose about them.

They were close on the finish line now, one nearly half a length ahead. Cheers for Port Henry filled the air. “Come on! Row!” some one shouted.

“You’re walking away from them!”

The second boat’s prow was even with the forward rower of the rival shell. Then it lagged even with the second oarsman. Then it fell astern, amid a pandemonium of waving and yelling.

“It’s all over,” some one called.

Then a voice from the motor-boat following called, “Lengthen out!”

The cry seemed to give new courage to the pair in the second shell. Their prow again rode level with the second member of the rival crew. Again they bent forward, their oars seemed for a second glued to the boat’s side, and as they rose again she shot forward. Again, and still again, the lithe forms bent, forward, back, and with each rise of the straining figures the craft leaped forward.

Now the two shells were even, their crews rowing like demons. Then again amid the shouting from both shores, the voice from the motor-boat cried, “Lengthen out!” and the shell which had regained its position darted forward again, past the other boat, and amid a bedlam of yells, the screech of whistles, and the frantic waving of a thousand handkerchiefs and flags, glided past the finish line, a half-length ahead of its rival.

In the moment of triumph, one of the victorious rowers was seen to sway, then sink forward. Harry could see it plainly—it was within a few yards of the yacht. The referee’s launch chugged up; some one called to the white figure in the old motor-boat, which was also drawing near. Others paddled up with congratulations and inquiries.

“Is there a doctor ashore?” some one called.

“No need for that, sir,” said the white figure in the approaching motor-boat. “I’m a doctor myself—just help me get him aboard here.”

Harry clutched the rail, speechless. He knew that voice, he knew that manner, he knew the glitter of the gold spectacles; yes, and he should have recognized before the spotless suit of white duck.

It was Red Deer.

All this had happened amid so much confusion and excitement on the lake, that before Harry realized it the stricken oarsman had been transferred to the motor-boat, which went chugging back up the course. Then he and Gordon stared blankly at each other. Even if they had had the presence of mind to call to Dr. Brent, it is doubtful if they could have made themselves heard above the tumult.

“It was Red Deer, Harry.”

“Sure it was—and that was Mac they lifted out.”

“Who is Red Deer?” asked Miss Crosby, excitedly. “Were those scouts that won?”

For a moment Harry was too preoccupied to explain. “Yes, those were scouts that won,” he then said abstractedly.

The clamorous shrieking of the launch containing the blue-sweater fellows brought them out of their daze. Their scoutmaster had actually appeared and disappeared before them amid excited throngs here at this remote little village. Two of their own fellow scouts had, by almost superhuman effort, won a race before their very eyes. Yes, and those were the only two fellows in the troop who could have done it—save one. And now one of them had given out, and there was the final heat still to be raced.

sang the college boys, triumphantly, as they chugged about. Their boisterous, confident voices were greeted with laughter and cheers from the shore. Soon, their well-trained, crack oarsmen would come down the river, walking easily away from the scout crew, with its probably crude substitute.

“I wonder how Red Deer got himself mixed up with those cracker jacks,” said Harry.

“Harry, what’ll they do? They can’t put Nelson in—or Burt, either—it’s—” Gordon looked imploringly into his friend’s face.

“Well, my boy,” said Mr. Danforth, clapping Harry on the shoulder, “where’s your voice? By Jove, that was a great victory! Why didn’t you cheer? Eh?”

“He’s deducing,” said Miss Crosby.

Harry turned suddenly. “Mr. Danforth,” said he, “those fellows belong to our own troop. Hanged if I know where they came from, but I—I—just can’t stand here and see them beaten after putting up a race like that.”

The girl’s eyes were fixed intently on Harry. Gordon listened, his hand trembling on the rail. Down the course came muffled cheering, as the victorious shell, with its single oarsman, was towed back to the starting line.

Then Miss Antoinette Crosby did a strange thing. She threw her arms around Mr. Danforth’s neck, and whispered to him, concluding by saying audibly, “Please, please!”

That gentleman looked sharply at Harry, but said not a word. He walked across the deck, and called below:

“Captain, steam up the course as quick as you can!”

In a moment the yacht’s bow came around, and a score or more of little craft went scooting this way and that. Then her whistle sounded, dignified and melodious compared with the screeching and tooting about her, and she headed up the crowd-bordered lake.

“Where are you going, sir?” came a voice from below.

“Up the course.”

“You can’t go up the course now, sir,” came from the patrol boat. “You’ll have to stay below the finish line—you were told that before.”

“It’s a matter of great importance,” Mr. Danforth called.

“Can’t help it. Fetch her round.”

“Take her up, Captain!” ordered Mr. Danforth, firmly. “Clear out under there if you don’t want to be run into!”

“What are they trying to do?” said a man in the judge’s boat, which came chugging up. “Here, bring that craft about! None of that!”

“Ahoy there, below!” shouted Mr. Danforth’s captain. “Stand out from under if you don’t want to be run down!”

The low, deep whistle sounded again, two gasoline dories chugged frantically backward, and the big white yacht, serene and heedless, steamed majestically up the course.

“Didn’t I tell you he always has his own way?” said the girl, coming up to Harry, who still leaned dazedly over the rail. “Now you are going to distinguish yourself—you’ve got to—for my sake!”

“How did you know I wanted to take that fellow’s place, Miss Crosby?”

“Stupid!” she said. “Do you think you’re the only person that knows how to deduce?”

“I’m afraid it’s a hopeless task, Miss Crosby. I haven’t been in training, you know. I’m all tired out, and they’re a pretty skillful pair—those college chaps—then—”

“They’re an insulting, conceited set—and their poetry is at-ro-cious! You’ve got to do it. You can beat them. I know you can!”

“Well, I guess that will help me to win, if anything can,” Harry said.

“Here, Harry, my boy,” said Mr. Danforth, coming up. “No time to be standing around talking with girls now. Come down in the cabin, and we’ll see if we can’t root out a jersey or bathing suit that’ll fit you—we’ll be up there in a minute.”

“Isn’t it wonderful! You’ve found them at last!” the girl said to Gordon when Harry had gone below. “And just to think, I was here to see you do it! And oh, I want so much to see him row!”

“You’ll see him row, all right,” said Gordon.

“He can do most anything, can’t he?”

“Yes—but he doesn’t know much about girls.”

“Why, what makes you say that?”

“’Cause he doesn’t. He doesn’t know as much as I do about them.”

“The idea of your saying that—he must know lots of girls!”

“He hasn’t had as much experience with them as I have—but, honest, there’s nothing he can’t do—honest.”

“Tell me about him, won’t you? About the things he can do.”

Would he!

All was excitement on the float as the yacht steamed by, headed for the pier a few yards beyond. Evidently the oarsman who had collapsed was not in a serious condition, for there was Dr. Brent talking with one of the regatta committee. And there were Walden and Charlie Greer and Swift and Waring and “Brick” Parks, crowding about him.

“Looks good to see Parks’s red head, doesn’t it, Kid? Don’t shout, now, just wait—it’ll only be a minute.” It was like an inspiration to both boys to see the familiar faces.

A racing shell containing two boys waited at the float. Each had a blue sweater thrown over his shoulders. Another shell, empty, was moored hard by.

The yacht made a landing and Harry went ashore, followed by Gordon. Miss Crosby stood at the rail watching them as they went over the side.

“Remember,” she said, laughing, “it’s a scout’s duty to help others. You see, I know the law!”

The boys hurried to the float and for a moment stood on the edge of the little crowd, unobserved.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Dr. Brent. “There isn’t another oarsman I can put in. I thank you for your kindness, but I’m afraid it will have to go by default. You see, we’re not prepared for this kind of thing, anyway; we’ve already accomplished more than I expected.”

“Nothing doing?” called one of the oarsmen in the waiting shell.

“’Fraid not,” answered some one in authority.

Several fellows in blue sweaters, armed with gigantic megaphones, set up a victorious howl. The Danforth yacht steamed gayly down the course.

“Humph! All over. Those Welden chaps would win in a walk, anyway,” said some one near Harry. Then he heard the referee speak to Dr. Brent from his launch.

“I’m going to start this crew down the course, sir, so that I can give them the decision; you are not prepared?”

The expression rang in Harry’s ears. It was the scouts’ own motto.

He pressed his way through the crowd and stood, face to face, with his scoutmaster and several members of the committee.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly; “we are prepared.”

You could have knocked Red Deer down with a feather. As for Walden and Charlie Greer and “Brick” Parks—you should have seen them. Vinton, the Hawks’ corporal, stood gaping like an idiot. Then the sudden appearance of Gordon broke the spell and turned the whole thing into a laugh.

“Did you come up in that yacht?” asked the astonished Red Deer.

“Yes,” said Harry. “We’ve been tramping around the country, looking for you. How’s Mac—what’d he do, just faint? Hello, Burt, how’s everything? Morrel, you’ve got your octagon staff along, haven’t you?”

“Do you wish to enter this fellow?” some one asked, while the crowd clustered about.

“Will you try it, Harry?” asked the doctor.

“What do you suppose we came up in a private yacht for?” asked Gordon, who, being, as you might say, mascot of the troop, enjoyed the special privilege of “talking up” to the scoutmaster. “There’s a magnet on that yacht.”

“A what?” said Dr. Brent.

“Magnate, he means,” said Harry.

The sudden appearance of the substitute did not seem to produce much anxiety on the part of the blue sweaters. On the contrary, they regarded his advent as affording them an opportunity of winning when they would otherwise simply have had the race without earning it. The casual glimpse they had of him gave them a good deal of amusement. He wore an ill-fitting bathing jersey, his face had the tan of a countryman, and the loose stride with which he approached the shell, followed by Pierce, was not the stride of a trained athlete. There was no objection to his rowing when it became known that he was a member of the troop.

As many of the scouts as their old boat would hold crowded in and made a bee line for the finish, Gordon among them, talking volubly.

Harry looked the shell over as he and Pierce took their places. It was quite the sort of racing craft which one might expect to find in a country boathouse. It had two pairs of swivels, not very far from the sides, and was, indeed, little more than a narrow, attenuated skiff. Harry sat on the forward slide and for a few moments had some trouble getting Pierce’s stroke. He was the last one in the world to row jealous, but try as he would to accommodate his pulling to that of his partner, he inevitably rowed him around every few strokes.

He could not fail to see that Pierce was well-nigh played out. The other shell was a full length in the lead, and gliding steadily along with a length and evenness of swing that were beautiful to see. The crowds cheered vociferously, and since both contestants were outsiders, there was no encouraging word for the second shell as it wriggled along.

Harry knew enough of pair racing to know that the forward oarsman is not free, and having his doubts about Pierce’s vitality, he had wisely taken the forward slide so as to watch him. It soon became plain that he must accommodate himself to ragged and erratic work. Whenever Pierce swung short or took a slack beginning, Harry had to exert himself to correct his partner’s fault and hold the course. They managed to get together in a spurt just beyond the half flag, and sent their prow up to the second rower of the rival craft. But it soon lapsed into a series of pitiable swerves, leaving them a full two lengths behind. With a coxswain, of course, they might have done better, but as it was, their progress was little better than ridiculous. The shouting along the shore had an occasional note of hooting in it.

“Let her run, Welden,” some one called derisively. “It’s all over.”

“Those fellows came here aching for a race, and they haven’t had one yet,” shouted a sonorous voice.

The college boys were now more than three lengths in the lead, moving like twin pendulums, with long, uniform, supple swings. Together their oars rose, together plunged dripping, and steadily, without a tremor, their shell glided forward.

The leading shell was passing the three-quarters when Harry looked around. In his hasty glance, he saw the finish, the gay flotilla with its welcoming flags, the dense throng. He heard the premature tooting of distant launches.

“Hit her up, old man,” he said; “careful, now, one—two—”

It was no use. “Where are we?” asked Pierce, breathing heavily.

“There’s the three-quarters flag. Are you all in? All right, old man—don’t try.”

The disappointment in Harry’s voice could not be disguised, and it spurred Pierce to a frantic final effort. He leaned far forward, plunged his oar, made a long, steady stroke, then before he rose, a hand stole over his own and the oar was taken from him.

“That’s all right,” said Harry, gently. “Sit steady, old man,—not going to keel over, are you?”

Half-consciously, and with a feeling of utter relief, Pierce collapsed, his head hanging forward, his hands clutching the gunwale on either side.

“That’s right,” said Harry. “Don’t lean back. I need the room. I’ll splash you when I get her going.”

Pierce did not know what it was all about; he did not care, but he was vaguely conscious of ecstatic cheering and of a sudden dart forward.

They were two racing oars that Harry had undertaken to manage—not a pair of sculls—which meant that there was a full two feet more length than a single arm was supposed to manipulate. He locked the oar into his own empty swivel. His lithe, slender form bent forward till it almost lay upon the prostrate figure before him. Then the quick, steady rise of his body, past the perpendicular, back till he seemed to lie prone. Then the quick, clean, firm lift of the dripping oars. Then the rapid, elastic recovery of his body, the long, well-balanced forward swing, accompanied by the straight reach of his arms.

The shell glided forward under the impetus of this human machinery. Again and again, without the variation of the fraction of an inch in any move, the long pull was taken, and greeted with frantic howls from the shore. His hair blew about his head with a kind of wild picturesqueness, his movement was like an automaton—perfect, calm, indomitable. Presently, a perfect pandemonium of yelling and screeching rang in his ears. He glanced aside and saw that his prow was even with his rival’s forward slide. They were now within a few feet of the finish.

He pulled another stroke, then splashed water over Pierce’s head, as he had promised.

The rival oarsmen glanced at him, surprised, apprehensive. The launch with the other blue sweaters approached as near as allowed, her occupants shouting advice vociferously to meet this new turn of affairs. Their placard was not in evidence.

Close in the rear, Harry saw the referee’s launch clipping along, as if awakened to sudden and necessary activity. He was vaguely conscious of the dense, surrounding throng, of carriages and autos crowded in the road, of canoes and dories packed tight at the water’s edge.

He was desperate, but calm. He knew what he wished to do. He knew enough of the sport to know that the sculler has one advantage, that of spurting. Between contesting scullers, well-matched, the spurt at the right moment usually means victory. If he could keep this position through his rival’s “long stroke,” then he stood a chance.

Presently, the order came. “Long stroke—hit her up!” shouted their coach from the motor-boat. They darted ahead, had their little spasm, and Harry remained exactly where he was before—his bow level with their second slide.

They were close on the finish line. The screeching was deafening.

“Hit her up, boys!” came a laughing mandate from the Welden launch. “Once more, hit her up, and let her run!”

The judge’s dory swirled about to clear the way. You would not have thought that Harry could give a longer swing nor pull a more effectual stroke than he had been doing. Yet the shell, bearing the huddled and exhausted scout and its single oarsman, darted silently forward like a streak. Its prow lay even with the prow of the rival craft now. The boys in blue sweaters yelled frantically to their crew, but their cries and orders were drowned in the tumult.

Again, and still again, the agile form swung forward. Again, and still again, the shell responded, cutting the still, sun-flecked water like a knife. Now she was half a length ahead. Then there was a sudden shake of his head as the oars dipped, and his hair flew loose. It was a sight for a painter.

Throwing all his strength into the pull, uniting in a final effort the utmost power and reach of arm and body, he swung back, his head hanging in a kind of loose abandon from the exhaustion of the stroke. And amid the frenzied cheering and clamorous waving of hats and flags, he swept past the finish line.

Just above him, as they brought the shell about, he could distinguish, amid the screeching of a score of boats, the deep, melodious whistle of the big white yacht.