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Jack Ranger's Gun Club; Or, From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail
CHAPTER I
JACK WINS A RACE
“Now, then, are you all ready?”
“I’m as ready as I ever shall be,” answered Jack Ranger, in reply to the question from Sam Chalmers. “Let her go!”
“Wait a minute,” cried Dock Snaith. “I want to put a little more oil on my oarlocks.”
“Oh, you’re always fussing about something, Dock,” said Sam. “It looks as if you didn’t want to go into this race after all your boasting.”
“That’s what it does,” came from Nat Anderson.
“Hu! Think I can’t beat Jack Ranger?” replied Dock with a sneer as he began putting more oil on the oarlock sockets. “I could beat him rowing with one hand.”
“Get out!” cried Sam. “You’ve got a swelled head, Dock.”
“I have, eh?”
“Now are you ready?” asked Sam again, as he stepped forward and raised the pistol, ready to fire the starting shot in a small race between Jack Ranger, one of the best-liked students at Washington Hall, and Dock Snaith, a bullying sort of chap, but who, in spite of his rather mean ways, had some friends.
“I guess I’m all ready now,” replied Dock, as he got on the center of the seat and adjusted the oars.
“Better send for your secretary to make sure,” said Nat Anderson, and at this there was a laugh from the students who had gathered to see the contest. “Rusticating rowlocks, but you’re slow!”
“You mind your own business, Anderson,” came from the bully, “or I’ll make you.”
“It’ll take more than you to make me,” responded Nat boldly, for more than once he had come into conflict with Snaith and did not fear him.
“It will, eh? Well, if I can get out of this boat – ”
“Aw, go on! Row if you’re going to!” exclaimed Sam. “Think I haven’t anything to do except stay here and start this race? You challenged Jack, now go ahead and beat him – if you can.”
“Yes, come on,” added Jack, a tall, good-looking, bronzed youth, who sat on the seat in the small boat, impatiently moving the oars slowly to and fro.
“Oh, I’ll beat you,” said the bully confidently. “You can give the word whenever you’re ready, Chalmers.”
“Ah! that’s awfully kind of you, really it is,” said Jack in a high, falsetto voice, which produced another laugh.
Dock Snaith scowled at Jack, but said nothing. There was a moment’s delay, while Sam looked down the course to see if all was clear on Rudmore Lake, where the contest was taking place.
“I’m going to fire!” cried Sam.
The two contestants gripped their oars a little more firmly, they leaned forward, ready to plunge them into the water and pull a heavy stroke at the sound of the pistol. Their eyes were bright with anticipation, and their muscles tense.
Crack! There was a puff of white smoke, a little sliver of flame, hardly noticeable in the bright October sunlight; then came a splash in the water as the broad blades were dipped in, and the race was on.
“Jack’s got the lead! Jack’s ahead!” cried the friends of our hero, as they ran along the shore of the lake.
“Dock is only tiring him out,” added the adherents of the school bully. “He’ll come in strong at the finish.”
“He will if he doesn’t tire out,” was Nat Anderson’s opinion. “Dock smokes too many cigarettes to be a good oarsman.”
“I suppose you think Ranger will have it all his own way?” spoke Pud Armstrong, a crony of Snaith.
“Not necessarily,” was Nat’s answer as he jogged along. “But I think he’s the better rower.”
“We’ll see,” sneered Pud.
“Yes, we’ll see,” admitted Nat.
The two contestants were now rowing steadily. They had a little over a mile to go to reach the Point, as it was called; that being the usual limit of impromptu racing events.
The contest between Jack Ranger and Dock Snaith was the result of an argument on oarsmanship, which had taken place in the school gym the night before. It was shortly after the opening of the term at Washington Hall, and in addition to football, which would soon be in full sway, there was rowing to occupy the attention of the students, for the lake, on the shores of which the academy was situated, was well adapted for aquatic sports.
The talk had turned on who were the best individual oarsmen in the school, and Jack Ranger’s friends lost no time in mentioning him as the champion, for more than once he had demonstrated that in a single shell, or a large, eight-oared one, he could pull a winning stroke.
Dock Snaith’s admirers were not slow in advocating his powers, and the bully, not at all backward to boast of his own abilities, had challenged Jack to a small race the next day. Jack had consented, and the contest was now under way.
“Jack’s going to walk right away from him,” said Dick Balmore, otherwise known as “Bony,” from the manner in which his inner skeleton was visible through his skin, and from a habit he had of cracking his knuckles.
“Don’t be too sure,” cautioned Sam. “Snaith has lots of muscle. Our only hope is that he won’t last. His wind isn’t very good, and Jack has set him a fast clip.”
“Go on, Dock,” cried Pud Armstrong. “Go on! You can do him easy!”
Dock nodded, the boats both being so close to shore that ordinary conversation could easily be heard.
“That’s the stuff, Jack!” cried Nat Anderson. “Keep it up!”
Jack had increased his stroke two or three more per minute, and Dock found it necessary to do likewise, in order not to get too far behind. He was letting his rival set the pace, and so far had been content merely to trail along, with the sharp bow of his frail craft lapping the stern of Jack’s a few feet.
“Dock’s holding back for the finish,” remarked Pud as he raced along, and in passing Nat he dug his elbow into the side of Jack’s chum.
“Well, if he is, that’s no reason why you should try to puncture my inner tubes,” expostulated Nat. “I’ll pitch you into the lake if you do that again.”
“Aw, you’re getting mad ’cause Jack’s going to lose,” sneered Pud.
“That’s what he is,” added Glen Forker, another crony of the bully.
“Am I? Just wait,” was all Nat answered as he rubbed his ribs. “Slithering side saddles! but you gave me a dig!”
The contestants were now rowing more rapidly, and the students on shore, who were following the race, had to increase their pace to keep up to them.
“Hit it up a little, Jack!” called Sam. “You’ve got him breathing hard.”
“He has – not! I’m – I’m all right,” answered Dock from his boat, and very foolishly, too, for he was getting winded, and he needed to save all his breath, and not waste it in talking. Besides, the halting manner in which he answered showed his condition. Sam noticed it at once.
“You’ve got him! You’ve got him, Jack!” he cried exultantly. “Go on! Row hard!”
“Say, that ain’t fair!” cried Pud Armstrong.
“What isn’t?” asked Sam.
“Telling Jack like that. Let him find out about Dock.”
“I guess I know what’s fair,” replied Sam with a withering look. “I’ll call all I want to, and don’t you interfere with me, or it won’t be healthy for you.”
Pud subsided. Sam Chalmers was the foremost authority, among the students, on everything connected with games and sports, for he played on the football eleven, on the nine, and was a general leader.
“You’d better hit it up a bit, Dock,” was Glen Forker’s advice to his crony, as he saw Jack’s lead