In vain Ward Hammond threshed and flailed. His wind and strength were gone.
Merriwell reached the landing three yards in the lead, and was immediately drawn out on the boards.
Then, all wet as he was, he was hoisted to the shoulders of his admirers--to the shoulders of men who loved pluck and fair play--and borne around the boathouse, while they bellowed at the top of their lungs:
After that there were exhibitions of fancy diving and swimming by Frank Merriwell and others, which were not taken part in by the disgruntled Hammond, however, and by only a few of his intimate friends.
Thus the swimming ended, to the entire satisfaction of those who had waited so long and so patiently for its beginning.
"And to-morrow comes that mountain climb," said Merriwell, speaking to Colson, when they were again in the dressing-room. "I wonder if Hammond will be as palpitatingly anxious for that as he was for this swim?"
The mountain chosen for the climb was one of the wildest and ruggedest of the Blue Ridge range. It rose just beyond Blue Mountain, whereon Hammond and his friends had their summer camp, and its dark shadows fell afternoons into the hollows and dells where clung the cabins of the poor whites who recognized the leadership of Bob Thornton.
"It's not a pleasant feat to contemplate," grumbled Bruce Browning, looking from the door of the cottage he occupied in company with others, and staring up at the half-naked heights that thrust themselves skyward. "It's much prettier at a distance. I haven't any sympathy for these fellows who form Alpine clubs, to bury themselves in snowdrifts and break their necks in crevices, when they might be staying at home, sensibly enjoying themselves."
"I don't doubt you're really wishing for a rattling good chill," laughed Sep Colson. "It would be such an excellent excuse to laze all day in that hammock."
"Hardly that," grunted Bruce. "A fellow might as well wish he'd break an arm to get out of the job of sawing a little wood. But, seriously, doesn't it seem to you a great waste of energy for a mighty little return to go panting up that mountain, trying to beat a lot of other fellows who haven't any more sense than you?"
"No more of that," cried Rattleton, coming up at that moment, and overhearing the question. "You're the worst grumbler on the face of the footstool, Browning. I should think you'd be just dancing with joy this morning to think how you slipped through that scrape down at Thornton's. And if there is anything prettier than that mountain, with the morning mists creeping around it, I don't know what it is."