O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1920 by Various

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But on the other hand, the morrow was to bring him the crown of
toilsome years, was to make his name one to conjure with wherever
Baliol was loved or known. He knew what the varsity _cachet_ would
do for his prospects in the world. And after all, he had his own
life to live, had he not? Would not the selfish, or rather the
rigorous, settlement of this problem, be for the best in the end,
since his making good would simply be making good for his father and
his mother? But how about his father's chance for making good on his
own account?

A comrade in the cot adjoining heard a groan.

"Eh! Are you sick, Deacon? Are you all right?"

"Sure--dreaming," came the muffled reply.

There was something unreal to Deacon about the morning. The sunlight
was filled with sinister glow; the voices of the rowing men were
strange; the whole environment seemed to have changed. It was
difficult for Jim Deacon to look upon the bronzed faces of the
fellows about the breakfast table, upon the coach with his stiff
moustache and glittering eyeglasses--difficult to look upon them and
realize that within a few hours his name would be anathema to them,
that forever where loyal men of Baliol gather he would be an outcast,
a pariah.

That was what he would be--an outcast. For he had come to his
decision: Just what he would do he did not know. He did not know
that he would not stroke the Baliol varsity. Out of all the welter
of thought and travail had been resolved one dominant idea. His
father came first: there was no evading it. With all the
consequences that would follow the execution of his decision he was
familiar. He had come now to know what Baliol meant to him as a
place not only of education, but a place to be loved, honoured,
revered. He knew what his future might be. But--his father came first.
Arising from the breakfast-table, he spoke to but one man, Junior
Doane.

"Doane," he said, drawing him to one side, "you will row at stroke
this afternoon."

The man stared at him. "Are you crazy, Deacon?"

"No, not crazy. I'm not feeling well; that's all."

"But look here, Deacon--you want to see the coach. You're off your
head or something. Wait here, just a minute." As Doane hurried away
in search of Dr. Nicholls, Deacon turned blindly through the yard
and so out to the main road leading to a picturesque little river
city about nine miles up the stream.

June was at her loveliest in this lovable country with its walled
fields, its serene uplands and glowing pastures, its lush river
meadows and wayside flowers. But of all this Deacon marked nothing
as with head down he tramped along with swift, dogged stride. Up the
river three or four miles farther on was the little city of which he
had so often heard but never seen, the little city of Norton, so
like certain English river-cities according to a veteran Oxford
oarsman who had visited the Baliol quarters the previous season.
Deacon had an interest in strange places; he had an eye for the
picturesque and the colourful. He would wander about the place,
filling his mind with impressions. He had always wanted to go to
Norton; it had seemed like a dream city to him.

He was in fact striding along in the middle of the road when the
horn of a motorcar coming close behind startled him. As he turned,
the vehicle sped up to his side and then stopped with a grinding of
brakes.

Dr. Nicholls, the coach, rose to his full height in the roadster and
glared down at Deacon, while Junior Doane, who had been driving,
stared fixedly over the wheel. The coach's voice was merely a series
of profane roars. He had ample lungs, and the things he said seemed
to echo far and wide. His stentorian anger afforded so material a
contrast to the placid environment that Deacon stood dazed under the
vocal avalanche, hearing but a blur of objurgation.

"Eh?" He paused as Junior Doane placed an admonishing hand upon his
arm.

"I beg your pardon, Doctor; but I don't think that is the right way.
May I say something to Deacon?"

The coach, out of breath, nodded and gestured, sinking into his seat.
"Look here, Jim Deacon, we've come to take you back. You can't buck
out the race this way, you know. It isn't done. Now, wait a minute!"
he cried sharply as the boy in the road made to speak. "I know why
you ran away. Jane Bostwick called me up and told me everything. She
hadn't realized quite what she was doing----"

"She--she bungled everything."

"Bungled! What do you mean, Dr. Nicholls?"

"Nothing--nothing! You young idiot, don't you realize you're trying
to kill yourself for life? Jump into the car."

"I'm not going to row." Deacon's eyes smoldered upon the two.

Studying him a moment, Dr. Nicholls suddenly grasped the seriousness
of Deacon's mood. He leaped from the car and walked up to him,
placing a hand upon his shoulder.

"Look here, my boy: You've let a false ideal run away with you. Do
you realize that some twenty-five thousand people throughout this
country are having their interests tossed away by you? You represent
them. They didn't ask you to. You came out for the crew and worked
until you won a place for yourself, a place no one but you can fill.
There are men, there are families on this riverside to-day, who have
traveled from San Francisco, from all parts of the country, to see
Baliol at her best. There are thousands who have the right to ask us
that Shelburne is not permitted to win this afternoon. Do you
realize your respons----"

Deacon raised his hand.

"I've heard it said often, Dr. Nicholls, that any one who gets in
Cephas Doane's way gets crushed. I'm not afraid of him, nor of any
one else, on my own account; but I'm afraid of him because of my
father. My father is getting to be an old man. Do you think I am
going to do anyth----" Deacon's voice, which had been gathering in
intensity, broke suddenly. He couldn't go on.

"Jim Deacon!" There was a note of exhilaration in Junior Doane's
voice. He hastily climbed out of the car and joined the coach at
Deacon's side. "I'm not going to defend my father now. No one knows
him as I do; no one knows as I do the great big stuff that is in him.
He and I have always been close, and----"

"Then you know how he'd feel about any one who took your place in
the boat. He can't hurt me. But he can break my father's heart----"

"Deacon, is that the opinion you have of my father!"

"Tell me the truth, Doane; is there the chance under the conditions
that with a choice between two men in the bank he might fail to see
Father? Isn't it human nature for a man as dominant and strong as he
is, who has always had or got most of the things he wants, to feel
that way?"

"Perhaps. But not if you can win out against Shelburne. Can't you
see your chance, Deacon? Go in and beat Shelburne; Father'll be so
glad he'll fall off the observation-train. You know how he hates
Shelburne. Any soreness he has about my missing out at stroke will
be directed at me--and it won't be soreness, merely regret. Don't you
get it?"

"And if we lose----"

"If we lose, there's the chance that we're all in the soup."

"I'm not, if I keep out of this thing----"

"If we lose with _me_ at stroke, do you suppose it will help you or
any one related to you with my father when he learns that Baliol
_would probably have won with you stroking_?

"My Lord, Jim Deacon," Doane went on as the other did not reply,
"do you suppose this is any fun for me, arguing with you to swing an
oar this afternoon when I would give my heart's blood to swing it in
your place?"

"Why do you do it, then?"

"Why do I do it? Because I love Baliol. Because her interests stand
above mine. Because more than anything I want to see her win. I
didn't feel this way when you beat me out for stroke. I'll admit it.
I didn't show my feelings, but I was thinking of nothing but my
licking----"

"Ah!"

"Just a minute, Jim. I didn't realize the bigness of the thing,
didn't appreciate that what I wanted to do didn't count for a damn.
Baliol, only Baliol! It all came to me when you bucked out. Baliol
is all that counts, Jim. If I can help her win by rooting from the
observation-car, all right! But--don't think it's any fun for me
urging you to come back and row. For I wanted to row this race, old
boy. I--I----"

Doane's voice faltered. "But I can't; that's all. Baliol needs a
better man--needs you. As for you, you've no right to consider
anything else. You go in--and win."

"Win!" Jim Deacon stood in the road, rigid, his voice falling to a
whisper. "Win!" Into his eyes came a vacant expression. For a moment
the group stood in the middle of the road as though transfixed. Then
the coach placed his hand upon Deacon's arm, gently.

"Come Jim," he said.

The afternoon had gone silently on. Jim Deacon sat on the veranda of
the crew-quarters, his eyes fixed upon the river. Some of the crew
were trying to read; others lounged about talking in low voices.
Occasionally the referee's launch would appear off the float, the
official exchanging some words with the coach while the oarsmen
watched eagerly. Then the launch would turn and disappear.

"Too rough yet, boys. They're going to postpone another hour." Twice
had the coach brought this word to the group of pent-up young men
who in a manner of speaking were sharing the emotions of the
condemned awaiting the executioner's summons. Would the up-river
breeze never subside and give them conditions that would be
satisfactory to the meticulous referee?

Deacon lurched heavily in his seat.

"What difference does it make so long as the shells won't sink?" he
asked.

"We're ready," replied Dick Rollins. "It's Shelburne holding things
up; she wants smooth water, of course. It suits me, though. Things
will soften up by sunset."

"Sunset!" Deacon scowled at the western skies. "Well, sunset isn't
so far off as it was."

Word came, as a matter of fact, shortly after five o'clock. The coach,
with solemn face, came up to the cottage, bringing the summons.
After that for a little while Jim Deacon passed through a series of
vague impressions rather than living experience. There was the swift
changing of clothes in the cavernous boathouse, the bearing of the
boat high overhead to the edge of the float, the splash as it was
lowered into the water. Mechanically he leaned forward to lace the
stretcher-shoes, letting the handle of his oar rest against his
stomach; mechanically he tried to slide, tested the oarlock.

Then some one gripped the blade of his oar, pushing gently outward.
The shell floated gingerly out into the stream.

"Starboard oars, paddle." Responsive to the coxswain's sharp command
Deacon plied his blade, and in the act there came to him clarity of
perception. He was out here to win, to win not only for Baliol, but
for himself, for his father. There could be no thought of not winning;
the imminence of the supreme test had served to fill him with the
consciousness of indomitable strength, to thrill his muscles with
the call for tremendous action.

As the shell swept around a point of land, a volume of sound rolled
across the waters. Out of the corner of his eye he caught view of
the long observation-train, vibrant with animation, the rival
colours commingled so that all emblem of collegiate affiliation was
lost in a merger of quivering hue. A hill near the starting-line on
the other side of the river was black with spectators, who indeed
filled points of vantage all down the four miles of the course. The
clouds above the western hills were turning crimson; the waters had
deepened to purple and were still and silent.

"There, you hell-dogs!" The voice of the coxswain rasped in its
combativeness. "Out there is Shelburne; ahead of us at the line. Who
says it'll be the last time she'll be ahead of us?"

Along the beautiful line of brown, swinging bodies went a low growl,
a more vicious rattle of the oarlocks.

Suddenly as Jim Deacon swung forward, a moored skiff swept past his
blade, the starting-line.

"Weigh all." The coxswain's command was immediately followed by
others designed to work the boat back to proper starting-position.
Deacon could easily see the Shelburne crew now--big men all, ideal
oarsmen to look at. Their faces were set and grim, their eyes
straight ahead. So far as they gave indication, their shell might
have been alone on the river. Now the Baliol shell had made sternway
sufficient for the man in the skiff to seize the rudder. The
Shelburne boat was already secured. Astern hovered the referee's boat,
the official standing in the bow directing operations. Still astern
was a larger craft filled with favoured representatives of the two
colleges, the rival coaches, the crew-managers and the like.

"Are you all ready, Baliol?"

"Yes, sir." Deacon, leaning forward, felt his arms grow tense.

"Are you all ready, Shelburne?"

The affirmative was followed by the sharp report of a pistol. With a
snap of his wrist Deacon beveled his oar, which bit cleanly into the
water and pulled. There followed an interval of hectic stroking,
oars in and out of the water as fast as could be done, while spray
rose in clouds and the coxswain screamed the measure of the beat.

"Fine, Baliol." The coxswain's voice went past Deacon's ear like a
bullet. "Both away together and now a little ahead at forty-two to
the minute. But down now. Down--down--down--down! That's
it--thirty-two to the minute. It's a long race, remember.
Shelburne's dropping the beat, too. You listen to Papa, all of you;
he'll keep you wise. Number three, for God's sake don't lift all the
water in the river up on your blade at the finish. Shelburne's
hitting it up a bit. Make it thirty-four."

"Not yet." Deacon scowled at the tense little coxswain. "I'll do the
timing." Chick Seagraves nodded.

"Right. Thirty-two."

Swinging forward to the catch, his chin turned against his shoulder,
Deacon studied the rival crew which with the half-mile flags
flashing by had attained a lead of some ten feet. Their blades were
biting the water hardly fifty feet from the end of his blade, the
naked brown bodies moving back and forth in perfect rhythm and with
undeniable power registered in the snap of the legs on the
stretchers and the pull of the arms. Deacon's eyes swept the face of
the Shelburne coxswain; it was composed. He glanced at the stroke.
The work, apparently, was costing him nothing.

"They're up to thirty-four," cried Seagraves as the mile flags drew
swiftly up.

"They're jockeying us, Chick. We'll show our fire when we get ready.
Let 'em rave."

Vaguely there came to Deacon a sound from the river-bank--Shelburne
enthusiasts acclaiming a lead of a neat half a length.

"Too much--too much." Deacon shook his head. Either Shelburne was
setting out to row her rival down at the start, or else, as Deacon
suspected, she was trying to smoke Baliol out, to learn at an early
juncture just what mettle was in the rival boat. A game,
stout-hearted, confident crew will always do this, it being the part
of good racing policy to make a rival know fear as early as possible.
And Shelburne believed in herself, beyond any question of doubt.

And whether she was faking, or since Baliol could not afford to let
the bid go unanswered, a lead of a quarter of a length at the mile
had to be challenged:

"Give 'em ten at thirty-six!" Deacon's voice was thick with
gathering effort. "Talk it up, Chick."

From the coxswain's throat issued a machine-gun fusillade of
whiplash words.

"Ten, boys! A rouser now. Ten! Come on. One--two--three--four--oh,
boy! Are we walking! Five--six--are they anchored over there?
Seven--oh, you big brown babies! Eight--Shelburne, good
night--nine--wow!--ten!"

Deacon, driving backward and forward with fiery intensity, feeling
within him the strength of some huge propulsive machine, was getting
his first real thrill of conflict--the thrill not only of actual
competition, but of all it meant to him, personally: his father's
well-being, his own career--everything was merged in a luminous
background of emotion for which that glittering oar he held was the
outlet.

Shelburne had met the spurt, but the drive of the Baliol boat was
not to be denied. Gradually the two prows came abreast, and then
Deacon, not stopping at the call of ten, but fairly carrying the
crew along with him, swung on with undiminished ferocity, while
Seagraves' voice rose into a shrill crescendo of triumph as Baliol
forged to the lead.

"They know a little now." Deacon's voice was a growl as gradually he
reduced the beat to thirty-two, Shelburne already having diminished
the stroke.

Deacon studied them. They were rowing along steadily, the eyes of
their coxswain turned curiously upon the Baliol shell. He suspected
the little man would like nothing better than to have Baliol break
her back to the two-mile mark and thus dig a watery grave. He
suspected also, that, failing Baliol's willingness to do this, the
test would now be forced upon her. For Shelburne was a heavy crew
with all sorts of staying power. What Deacon had to keep in mind was
that his eight was not so rugged and had therefore to be nursed along,
conserving energy wherever possible.

It was in the third mile that the battle of wits and judgment had to
be carried to conclusion, the fourth mile lurking as a mere matter
of staying power and ability to stand the gaff. Deacon's idea was
that at present his crew was leading because Shelburne was not
unwilling for the present that this should be. How true this was
became evident after the two-mile flags had passed, when the
Shelburne oarsmen began to lay to their strokes with tremendous drive,
the boat creeping foot by foot upon the rival shell until the Baliol
lead had been overcome and Shelburne herself swept to the fore.

Deacon raised the stroke slightly, to thirty-three, but soon dropped
to thirty-two, watching Shelburne carefully lest she make a
runaway then and there. Baliol was half a length astern at the
two-and-a-half mile mark, passing which the Shelburne crew gave
themselves up to a tremendous effort to kill off her rival then and
there.

"Jim! They're doing thirty-six--walking away."

The coxswain's face was white and drawn.

But Deacon continued to pass up a thirty-two stroke while the
Shelburne boat slid gradually away until at the three-mile mark
there was a foot of clear water between its rudder and the prow of
the Baliol shell.

Deacon glanced at the coxswain. A mile to go--one deadly mile.

"Thirty-six," he said. "Shelburne's can't have much more left."

The time had passed for study now. Gritting his teeth, Deacon bent
to his work, his eyes fixed upon the swaying body of the coxswain,
whose sharp staccato voice snapped out the measure; the beat of the
oars in the locks came as one sound.

"Right, boys! Up we come. Bully--bully--bully! Half a length now. Do
you hear? Half a length! Give me a quarter, boys. Eh, Godfrey! We've
got it. Now up and at 'em, Baliol. Oh, you hell-dogs!"

As in a dream Deacon saw the Shelburne boat drift into view, saw the
various oarsmen slide past until he and the rival stroke were rowing
practically abeam.

"That's for you, Dad," he muttered--and smiled.

He saw the men swing with quickened rhythm, saw the spray fly like
bullets from the Shelburne blades.

"Look out." There was a note of anguish in Seagraves' voice.
"Shelburne's spurting again."

A malediction trembled upon Deacon's lips. So here was the joker
held in reserve by the rival crew! Had Baliol anything left? Had he
anything left? Grave doubt was mounting in his soul. Away swept the
Shelburne boat inches at a stroke until the difference in their
positions was nearly a length. Three miles and a half! Not an
observer but believed that this gruelling contest had been worked out.
Seagraves, his eyes running tears, believed it as he swung backward
and forward exhorting his men. Half a mile more! The crews were now
rowing between the anchored lines of yachts and excursion-craft. The
finish boat was in sight.

And now Deacon, exalted by something nameless, uttered a cry and
began to give to Baliol more than he really had. Surely, steadily,
he raised his stroke while his comrades, like the lion-hearts they
were, took it up and put the sanction of common authority upon it.
Thirty-four! Thirty-six! Not the spurt of physical prowess, but of
indomitable mentality.

"Up we come!" Seagraves' voice was shrill like a bugle. He could see
expressions of stark fear in the faces of the rival oarsmen. They
had given all they had to give, had given enough to win almost any
race. But here in this race they had not given enough.

On came the Baliol shell with terrific impulse. Quarter of a mile;
Shelburne passed, her prow hanging doggedly on to the Baliol rudder.

Victory! Deacon's head became clear. None of the physical torture he
had felt in the past mile was now registered upon his consciousness.
No thought but that of impending victory!

"Less than a quarter of a mile, boys. In the stretch. Now--my God!"

Following the coxswain's broken exclamation, Deacon felt an
increased resistance upon his blade.

"Eh?"

"Innis has carried away his oarlock." The eyes of the coxswain
strained upon Deacon's face.

Deacon gulped. Strangely a picture of his father filled his mind.
His face hardened.

"All right! Tell him to throw his oar away and swing with the rest.
Don't move your rudder now. Keep it straight as long as you can."

From astern the sharp eyes of the Shelburne cox had detected the
accident to Baliol's Number Six. His voice was chattering stridently.

Deacon, now doing the work practically of two men, was undergoing
torture which shortly would have one of two effects. Either he would
collapse or his spirit would carry him beyond the claims of
overtaxed physique. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes--a groan
escaped his lips. Then so far as personality, personal emotions,
personal feelings were concerned, Jim Deacon ceased to function. He
became merely part of the mechanism of a great effort, the principal
guiding part.

And of all those rowing men of Baliol only the coxswain saw the
Shelburne boat creeping up slowly, inexorably--eight men against
seven. For nearly a quarter of a mile the grim fight was waged.

"Ten strokes more, boys!"

The prow of the Shelburne shell was on a line with Baliol's Number
Two.

"One--two--three--four----" The bow of the Shelburne boat plunged up
abeam Baliol's bow oar.

"Five--six--God, boys!--seven----"

The voice of the coxswain swept upward in a shrill scream. A gun
boomed; the air rocked with the screech and roar of whistles.

Slowly Deacon opened his eyes. Seagraves, the coxswain, was standing
up waving his megaphone. Rollins, at Number Seven, lay prone over
his oar. Innis, who had broken his oarlock, sat erect; Wallace, at
Number Five, was down. So was the bow oar. Mechanically Deacon's
hand sought the water, splashing the body of the man in front of him.
Then suddenly a mahogany launch dashed alongside. In the bow was a
large man with white moustache and florid face and burning black eyes.
His lips were drawn in a broad grin which seemed an anomaly upon the
face of Cephas Doane.

If so he immediately presented a still greater anomaly. He laughed
aloud.

"Poor old Shelburne! I--George! The first in four years! I never saw
anything quite like that. We've talked of Baliol's rowing-spirit--eh!
Here, you Deacon, let me give you a hand out of the shell. We'll run
you back to quarters."

Deacon, wondering, was pulled to the launch and then suddenly
stepped back, his jaw falling, his eyes alight as a man advanced
from the stern.

"Dad!"

"Yes," chuckled Doane. "We came up together--to celebrate."

"You mean--you mean--" Jim Deacon's voice faltered.

"Yes, I mean--" Cephas Doane stopped suddenly. "I think in justice
to my daughter-in-law to be, Jane Bostwick, that some explanation is
in order."

"Yes, sir." Deacon, his arm about his father's shoulder, stared at
the man.

"You see, Dr. Nicholls had the idea that you needed a finer edge put
on your rowing spirit. So I got Jane to cook up the story about that
cashier business at the bank."

"You did!"

"Yes. Of course your father was appointed. The only trouble was that
Jane, bright and clever as she is, bungled her lines."

"Bungled!" Deacon's face cleared. "That's what Dr. Nicholls said
about her on the road, the day I bucked out. I remember the word
somehow."

"She bungled, yes. She was to have made it very clear that by
winning you would escape my alleged wrath--or rather, your father
would. I knew you would row hard for Baliol, but I thought you might
row superhumanly for your father."

"Well," Jim Deacon flushed, then glanced proudly at his father--
"you were right, sir--I would."

PROFESSOR TODD'S USED CAR

BY L. H. ROBBINS

From _Everybody's Magazine_

He was a meek little man with sagging frame, dim lamps and feeble
ignition. Anxiously he pressed the salesman to tell him which of us
used cars in the wareroom was the slowest and safest.

The salesman laid his hand upon me and declared soberly: "You can't
possibly go wrong on this one, Mr. Todd." To a red-haired boy he
called, "Willie, drive Mr. Todd out for a lesson."

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