“Get a move on, Bleek! Ginger up, pard, ginger up!”
“Good work, Merry! That’s the way to show ’em your heels!”
“Dig, old scout! Why don’t you dig?”
“Plenty of chance, yet, Bleek; don’t lose your nerve!”
“Chance? Why, Bleeker hasn’t a look-in—not with Chip Merriwell paddling like that! Merry’s coming down the stretch like a scared coyote making for home and mother. Hoop-a-la!”
There were five canoes in that race for single paddles. There had been seven, but two had fouled each other and come to grief less than a hundred yards from the starting point. Barzy Blunt and Hotchkiss, of Gold Hill, were the unlucky ones. As soon as they had gained the shore they joined the rooters who were running along the bank. A ducking had not dampened their ardor in the least, and Blunt and Hotch pranced along in their bathing trunks, cheering and encouraging the rest of the racers.
It was late in the forenoon. The bright Arizona sun trailed its beams over the waters of the gulch, gilding each little ripple as it danced about the charging canoes. The only shadow on the stream was at the place where the gentle slopes of the gulch banks were shouldered aside by the steep bluff known as Apache Point.
Above the Point, and around the turn in the gulch, was a white flag. The start of the canoe race had been from this flag. The “elbow” at the foot of the Point was to be rounded by the racers, and the finish line was opposite the white tents of the Gold Hill campers.
85
Apart from Blunt and Hotchkiss, the contesting paddlers were young Merriwell, his chums, Owen Clancy and Billy Ballard, Bleeker, a leader in the Gold Hill Athletic Club, and Lenaway, another member of the club.
Merriwell, Clancy, and Ballard, crouching in the sterns of their frail craft, had worked easily but steadily from the start. They knew from experience that swiftness in the get-away and a wild expenditure of energy at the beginning caused the loss of many a race—not only on the water but on the cinder track, as well. It is the fellow who carefully and judiciously nurses his powers for a spurt on the home stretch that makes the best showing, when all’s said and done.
The length of the course to be covered in this canoe race was about half a mile. A hundred yards from the starting point, Frank and his chums were some distance behind. Bleeker led, and almost neck and neck with him were Hotchkiss and the cowboy, Barzy Blunt. Lenaway’s canoe filled in the widening gap between the leaders and the Farnham Hall lads in the rear.
Blunt had more strength than skill, and it was his awkwardness that caused the crash with Hotchkiss. The violence of the impact caused both canoes to roll over and fill. With these two contestants out of the way, the race began rapidly narrowing down.
One by one the canoes rounded the foot of the Point, hugging the steep wall closely. Bleeker led the procession, Lenaway followed, and then came Merry, Clancy, and Ballard in the order named.
The instant Merriwell’s canoe shot away from the Point, however, he could be seen to buckle to his work in masterly style. First he overhauled Lenaway, and then passed him with comparative ease.
Lenaway, realizing that the race undoubtedly lay between
86
 Merriwell and Bleeker, strove to take what honors he could away from Clancy and Ballard. Halfway between the Point and the finish line, Ballard snapped his paddle.
“How’s that for luck?” he shouted ruefully, as Clancy and Lenaway dashed on prow to prow. “Go it, Reddy! It’s up to you and Chip, now, to show these Gold Hillers what we can do.”
Bleeker, a prime fellow and trained to the minute, realized that he had the fight of his life on his hands if he was to win against Merriwell. He made swift demand upon all his reserve strength, and his muscles answered superbly. But the strain of the contest was telling upon him—mainly because he had worked too hard on the first half of the course.
Merriwell was creeping up on the other canoe, slowly yet steadily and relentlessly. And the remarkable part of his work was that the tension of those exciting moments was not evident in a single move he made. With easy, almost careless, grace he dipped his blade, and his light craft plunged onward like a well-trained thoroughbred. It was evident to all that Merriwell was a “stayer,” and that Bleeker had about shot his bolt.
Frank was somewhat surprised at Bleeker, for on the preceding day he and Clancy had given the Gold Hill lads an object lesson in husbanding resources for the home stretch and not being too free with them at the beginning. Bleeker should have profited by that experience.
Little by little Merry drew up abreast of Bleeker. The latter’s face was set and there was a strained look about it which proved how hard he was driving himself.
When Frank nosed on into the lead, a roar went up from the bank. Blunt was rooting for Merry, and cheering with all his range ardor and enthusiasm. The cowboy
87
 had a whole-souled admiration for the Eas............