The opening of the summer term found the Arnolds back in their old places at Flemming, for it had seemed best not to interrupt their school life, much as Mrs. Arnold longed to have them with her. She was not the woman to sacrifice to her own inclinations the best good of her children, and not even Harry’s entreaties to be allowed to stay with her and Dorothy, had moved her from her original plan. Moreover the boys were too young, she felt, to have their lives saddened by the constant sight of her grief, so with the unselfishness of the true mother, she gave them up once more, to go back to their happy school life among the New Hampshire hills.

And the change was good for them. The past three weeks had worn upon them both, and they needed the association with their old comrades to rouse them from their sorrow. At home, everything had suggested to them their loss; their father’s easy chair, his favorite books, even the very walls of the rooms seemed to speak of him and of his absence. Once back at Hilton, it was different. It was not that either Harry or Leon forgot their father or mourned for him any the less; but the reaction had come, as it naturally would do, and the fresh every-day interests crowded into their lives and, in a measure, replaced the one absorbing thought of their trouble.

Hilton was very beautiful, that year, with the on-coming of the spring; and the seniors watched it lovingly, with a tender regret that, for them, it was the last opportunity to see the buds swell into fresh green leaves, to hear the songs of the birds returning to the Hilton woodlands. A year from that time, they would all be scattered, while the familiar life of the old school would be going on just as usual, only without them.

One Saturday afternoon, early in May, Flemming Hall was quite deserted; not a face appeared at any of the windows, not a cadet was to be seen in any part of the grounds. It was the day of the annual regatta between the junior and senior classes, and the Flemming world had betaken itself to the lake.

Lake Hudson, as the cadets had named it, in honor of the river which rolls below the West Point bluff, lay two or three miles to the north of the village, in a small valley among the surrounding hills. It was a beautiful sheet of water, more than six miles long, and only broken by one little island near the southern end. Learned professors who had visited the spot, had examined it well, surprised at its lack of inlets, and had come to the only possible conclusion, that it was fed from underground sources. This gave an air of mystery to the little lake, which was heightened by a hollow, rumbling echo, to be heard at certain points along the shore, that suggested rocky caverns far below the surface. Lake Hudson had had its tragedy, too, like many another peaceful inland lake. The boys were all familiar with the sad story of the famous young musician who had been caught in a squall one day, while fishing in company with his older brother; how the boat had been overturned, and the older man had clung to its side in safety, only to see his brother struggle and sink before his very eyes.

But the lake looked quiet enough to-day, in the warm spring sun which lay over the water, turning it to a sheet of dazzling silver, broken here and there into the tiny golden ripples which came nearer and nearer, to creep through the rushes by the shore and splash up against the pebbles on the margin, with a gentle, lapping sound. Away to the north, the valley opened out before the eye, showing ranges of hills growing more and more distant until their green sides turned to a hazy blue, and then lost themselves against the hazier blue of the sky. The wooded shores sloped down to the road which ran along the very borders of the lake, affording scanty room for the throng of carriages which had gathered there, for the day of the regatta was a gala day for the surrounding towns, and ever since noon, the quiet country roads had been gay with the crowd that had assembled from far and near to watch the contest. Soon after dinner, the cadets had left Flemming, to walk up to the lake, and a little later the doctor and his wife, Lieutenant Wilde and Mr. Boniface had driven away in the same direction.

The three-mile course lay along beside the western bank, within full view of the road, and started from a point about half a mile from the foot of the lake, near the southern end of the little island, to take advantage of a long, unbroken sweep of shore which afforded an uninterrupted view of the boats, as they moved along parallel with the road. Far out, beyond the line of gayly decorated stakes which marked the half-mile points on the course, the water was dotted thickly with the little boats of every shape and color, in which the boys were paddling about as they waited for the crews to take their position at the starting-line.

“Rah! F. L. E. M. M. I. N. G! Fszt! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah!”

The Flemming cheer came up from the lake, in a stormy chorus, as the doctor, with a tiny morocco case in his hand, stepped into the boat which was awaiting him, and was rowed away towards the upper end of the course, where a stake, adorned with the colors of the two classes, marked the goal. For a time, the Flemming was the centre of interest; then, as it slowly came round into position and dropped anchor, every eye was turned back, to look away to the southern end of the lake, where the crews were still hidden in the lee of the Flemming boat house.

To the eager watchers, it seemed as if they would never start out into sight; and they strained their eyes to catch the first glimpse of the red and blue jerseys. In all the history of Flemming regattas, there had never been so exciting a race as this one, for it was agreed on all sides that, in any event, it must be a very close victory. Both crews were in perfect condition, for they had been in training for months, and had taken to the water so soon as the spring thaws had cleared the lake of floating ice, and allowed them to go up for their daily pull over the course. Moreover, the seniors were resolved to wipe out the stain upon their football record, while the juniors were no less determined to maintain the advantage they had gained, and leave untarnished the name and glory of the class of ninety-two.

Some trifling collision between two of the little boats had directed the attention to the upper end of the lake, when an enthusiastic cheer from a tiny blue boat, turned every eye towards the boat house. Slowly the junior crew rounded the side and came into view, followed, at a little distance, by the seniors, and both rowed lazily down to the starting-point. The regular sweep of the oars, and the almost mechanical precision of the motion of the backs, as they rose and fell in perfect unison, were the only hints they gave of their power, as they came down towards their waiting schoolmates, who received them with loyal shouts,—

“Nine-ty-one! Rah! Nine-ty-one! Rah!”

“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”

But the shouts died away, as the crews took their places. The light shells lay motionless upon the water, while the rowers sat with their oars poised in air, their gaze bent on Lieutenant Wilde, as he stood waiting to give the signal. Not a breeze stirred the air, and the lake was only broken by the tiny ripples that just roughened its glassy surface. The very water seemed to feel the hush of waiting, and to be holding itself motionless, like the human life around and upon it.

Then the shouts rang out again, for the signal was given and each shell, answering to the sudden tension of eight pairs of arms, leaped forward on its course. The race had begun.

The shells passed the first half-mile post in excellent style. Ninety-two was leading by a boat-length, and rowing twenty-eight strokes to the minute. The senior stroke was a little slower, and it was plain that both crews were reserving their best efforts until farther on in their course. Keeping pace with them, the carriages drove along up the shore of the lake, while beyond the course, on the outer side, the little fleet of boats shifted their positions and moved on, to keep their favorite crews well in sight. There was little outward show of enthusiasm as yet, for the course was long, and the boys were saving their throats for the final demonstration; but they watched with eager interest the steady rise and fall of the shoulders, the quiet, even play of the muscles which the light jerseys could not conceal, and the smooth stroke as the oars struck the water, cut their way through it, then were feathered in the air, before falling again for the succeeding stroke. In the meantime, occasional scraps of comment could be heard, tossed from boat to boat as the groups continually shifted and changed.

“Ninety-two has a fine stroke.”

“Wait till ninety-one gets after her.”

“I’ll wait; ninety-one won’t be in it to-day.”

“Don’t you believe it, she’s only holding off now.”

“The blue’ll have it; she’s more than three lengths ahead.”

“Red’s spurting. There she comes!”

True enough, as they approached the one-mile stake, the seniors quickened their stroke to thirty to the minute, and little by little their bow crept forward, lessening their distance by half a length, just as they reached the second stake.

“Nine-ty-one! Rah! Nine-ty-one! Rah!” answered the friends of the seniors, in an encouraging shout, while the loyal adherents of ninety-two sent back the cry,—

“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”

The first mile stake once passed, the crews settled to work in earnest. Ninety-two still kept the lead, with a long, steady stroke which not even the occasional spurts of ninety-one could pass. Three lengths, at the end of the next half-mile, showed that the juniors were more than holding their own, and made their friends exultant over the prospect of an easy victory. But the seniors and their friends, whose eyes were fixed on Captain Howard’s face, felt that the real test had not yet come; and they were content to wait, for they believed that the juniors were using their most finished stroke, while ninety-one still held herself in reserve. Even as they watched, the change came, a change too slight to catch the attention of any but a trained eye; and as ninety-one entered on the last half of her second mile, she slowly gained upon her adversary. Line by line, inch by inch she approached the leading shell, not a spurt this time, but a steady gain, slow but resistless, and the crews swept past the second mile stake with but two and a quarter lengths between.

“Hold your ground, blue!”

“Hurrah for red and ninety-one!”

“Ninety-one gains!”

“She can’t hold out!”

“Ninety-two’s stroke’ll win yet!”

“Ninety-one! Rah!”

But the cries died away again, for the boys were too eager in watching the straining muscles, the set, resolute faces of their champions, to waste any thought on mere class cries. Ninety-two was pulling magnificently, but ninety-one still continued to decrease the distance. At the end of the next quarter-mile, there was less than a boat-length between them, and both crews were putting forth their best energies, as they came sweeping down towards the goal. The next quarter-mile did its work, and the senior crew were still gaining: a length, three-quarters, half, one-third, one-eighth, and the crews were side by side with scarcely ten inches start for the juniors, as they entered upon their final half-mile, amidst the deafening cries which rose from lake and shore.

All at once, there came a sudden stillness which turned their jubilant shouts into a sort of low moan. The junior shell swerved slightly in her course, and for an instant her speed was checked. The next moment, ninety-one swept proudly past, leading her by two or three feet as she righted and resumed her stroke. The change was so sudden, that even the most distant on-looker realized that some accident had occurred, while the boys in the nearest boats had seen Frank Osborn’s oar snap in two, under the strain he had placed upon it.

“Nine-ty-one! Rah! Nine-ty-one! Rah!” shrieked the triumphant seniors, for they already fancied the prize in their hands. Indeed, it seemed an impossibility that the junior crew, crippled by the loss of an oar, and by having to carry the weight of a useless man, could regain its lost advantage.

No one knew what was to follow.

For one instant, the junior shell lay motionless as Frank Osborn rose, with a hasty word of warning, turned his handsome, scornful face towards the senior crew, in one flash of defiance, and then jumped far over the side of the boat into the cold, blue water below, as the lifted oars fell again and the lightened shell darted onward, amid the loud cheers that rose on every side.

The third quarter post of the last mile flashed past them, and ninety-one was still leading by a half length. Ninety-two had recovered from her shock and, with thirty-four strokes to the minute, was cutting the water like a knife, close in the rear, so close that Captain Howard made a final spurt.

Ninety-two answered with another, gained a little, lost a little, gained again, and for a second the boats stood bow to bow, and the goal was close at hand. Not a cry rose from bank or boat; nothing could be heard but the sound of the oars and the labored breathing of the men, as the boats swept past the stake, not eighteen inches apart. There was a hush, as the crowd drew one long, deep breath; and then came roar after roar, louder and yet more loud,—

“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”

“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”

“O. S. B. O. R. N! Rah! Rah! Rah!”

“Rah! F. L. E. M. M. I. N. G.! Fszt! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah!”

“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”

The race was over, and the blue had won. Once more, ninety-two was triumphant; but the junior captain was not half the hero in the boys’ eyes that Frank Osborn was, when he was landed, dripping, from the boat which had picked him up, and stowed away in the doctor’s carriage, for a quick drive homeward in the sunset.