The Willoughby Captains - Reed Talbot Baines - Страница 27

“Oh,” said Riddell, “as to that, you can take as many pounds off me as you like; but—”

“None of your buts, old man,” said Fairbairn. “I say, if we only were to win, with you as cox, what a score it would be!”

“None of your ‘ifs,’ old man,” said Riddell, laughing. “But I’ll come to-morrow, if you are determined to have your way.”

“Of course I am,” said Fairbairn.

This conversation took place the evening that young Wyndham was taking tea with Silk and Gilks in the study of the former.

The intelligence that the new captain was to be taken out to steer the schoolhouse boat mysteriously got wind before the evening was over, and spread over the school like wildfire. Consequently, when Riddell arrived at the boat-house in the morning, he was surprised and horrified to find that nearly all Willoughby was awake and down at the river banks to see him.

It was embarrassing certainly, and when presently the crew got into their seats and a start was made, it became evident the new coxswain was anything but at home in his new position. The boat was a long time getting clear of the landing stage owing to his persistently mistaking in his flurry his right hand for his left, and then when it did get out into mid-stream the same reason prevented him from discovering that the reason why the boat would turn round instead of going straight was because he had his right cord pulled hard the whole time.

This spectacle, as may be imagined, afforded intense gratification to the curious onlookers, and many and hilarious were the shouts which fell on the ears of the unlucky captain.

“Oh, well coxed there!” one voice cried.

“Well steered in a circle!” shouted another.

“Mind you don’t knock the bank down,” yelled a third.

“Pull your right there!”

“Try him without the rudder. See if he don’t steer better that way.”

In the midst of these uncomplimentary shouts the boat slowly wended its erratic course up the river, amidst crowds of boys on either bank.

“Riddell, old man,” said Fairbairn, leaning forward from his place at stroke, “what’s the row?”

It only needed a friendly voice to recall the captain to himself. By an effort he forgot about the crowds and turned a deaf ear to the shouts, and straightening himself, and taking the lines steadily in his hands, looked up quietly at his friend. Richard was himself again.

“Now then!” cried Fairbairn to his men behind, “row all!” and he led them off with a long steady stroke.

For a little distance the boat travelled well. Riddell kept a good course, and the whole crew worked steadily. The scoffers on the bank were perplexed, and their jeers died away feebly. This was not a crew of muffs assuredly. Those first twenty or thirty yards were rowed in a style not very far short of the Parrett’s standard, and Parson himself, the best cox of Parrett’s house, could hardly have taken the boat down that reach in a better course.

There was something ominous in this. But, to the great relief of the unfriendly critics, this showy lead was not maintained. Before a hundred yards were completed something seemed to go wrong in the boat. It rolled heavily and wavered in its course. What was wrong?

The fault was certainly not in Fairbairn, who kept doggedly to work in perfectly even style. Nor, to all appearance, was it in Riddell. He was evidently puzzled by the sudden unsteadiness of the boat, but no one could lay it to his charge.

“Who’s that digging behind?” cried Fairbairn over his shoulder.

None of the other three owned the soft impeachment, and the boat seemed to right itself of its own accord.

Fairbairn, whose temper was never improved by perplexities, quickened his stroke, and gave his men a spell of hard work for a bit to punish them.

This seemed to have a good effect, and once again the onlookers were startled to see how steadily and fast the boat was travelling. But once again the mysterious disturbance interrupted their progress.

This time Fairbairn stopped short, and turning round demanded angrily who it was who was playing the fool, for an effect like this could only be put down to such a course. Porter, Coates, and Gilks all repudiated the suggestion, and once more, amid the ironical cheers of the onlookers, Fairbairn resumed his work and lashed viciously out with his oar.

This last protest of his seemed to have had the desired effect, for during the rest of the journey up to the Willows the boat travelled fairly well, though it was evident plenty of work was needed before the crew could be considered in proper racing trim. But no sooner had they turned and started for the home journey than once again the rolling suddenly became manifest. Fairbairn rowed on a stroke or two without apparently noticing it, then turning sharply round in the middle of a stroke he discovered the reason.

The blade of Gilks’s oar was about a foot under the surface, and he himself was lurching over his seat, with the handle of the oar up to about his chin.

“What on earth do you mean by it?” demanded Fairbairn, angrily.

“Mean by what?” asked Gilks.

“By playing the fool like that; that’s what I mean,” retorted Fairbairn.

“Who was playing the fool?” snarled Gilks. “How can I help catching a crab when he’s constantly turning the boat’s head in the middle of a stroke?”

“All rot!” said Fairbairn.

“All very well for you at stroke,” said Gilks, viciously. “You come and row bow and see if you don’t feel it. I’d like to know who could keep his oar straight with such steering.”

“If you’d row half as well as he steers,” said Fairbairn, “you’d row a precious sight better than you do! You’d better take care, Gilks.”

“Take care of what, you fool?” demanded Gilks, whose temper was now fairly gone.

“Ready all, you fellows!” cried Fairbairn, stretching forward.

This brief conversation had been heard only by those in the boat, but its purport had been gathered by those on the bank who had watched the angry looks and heard the angry voices of the speakers.

“Bravo! fight it out!” cried some one, and the news that there was a quarrel in the schoolhouse boat added greatly to the zest of the critics’ enjoyment.

Fairbairn’s caution — whether purposely, or because he could not help it — was lost upon the offending bow oar. The boat had scarcely started again when Gilks caught another crab, which for the moment nearly upset the crew. Fairbairn rowed on, with thunder in his face, regardless of the incident, and Riddell kept as straight a course as he could, despite the unsteadiness. In due time the unsatisfactory practice came to an end, and the crew stood together again on the steps of the boat-house.

Gilks seemed to expect, and every one else expected, that Fairbairn would once more take the defaulter to task for his performance that morning, and Fairbairn did not disappoint him; though he dealt with the matter in a rather unexpected manner.

“I shall want the tub-pair after third school,” said he to the boatman. “Riddell, will you come and cox. Crossfield and me?”

“Who — Crossfield?” asked Coates.

“Yes; I shall try him for bow.”

“You mean to say,” exclaimed Gilks, taking the matter in, “you’re going to turn me out of the boat?”

“Certainly,” said Fairbairn, coolly.

“What for?” demanded Gilks, threateningly.

“Because,” replied Fairbairn, taking Riddell’s arm and walking slowly off—“because we can do better without you.”

Gilks stared at him a moment as though he meditated flying at him. If he did, he thought better of it, and turned away, muttering to himself that he would pay them all out, let them see if he did not.

Threats of this sort were not unheard-of things from Gilks, and no one was greatly disturbed by them. On the whole, Fairbairn’s decision was approved of by most of the schoolhouse partisans, particularly those who had watched the proceedings of the morning. A few thought Gilks might have been accorded a second chance, but the majority argued that if a fellow caught crabs like that in a practice he would probably do it in the race, and they did not want the risk of that.