Читать книгу Frank Merriwell, Jr., in Arizona; or, Clearing a Rival's Record онлайн

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“Come on, you Bleek!” shouted the Gold Hillers.

“Come on, Hotch!”

“Keep it up, Gold Hill! You’ve got ’em beaten.”

“Oh, you Bleeker! We’re slow at football, but I reckon we’re there with the goods on the water.”

“It isn’t Jode Lenning you’re up against now, Merriwell!”

All this rooting on the part of the Gold Hill fellows did not in the least disturb Merriwell or Clancy. They were paddling like clockwork, but were saving their energies for the last lap. After the white flag was met and turned, they’d begin to show what they were made of.

The main thing was to keep a clear head and steady nerves while the competing canoe was moving away from them. And in this certainly Merriwell and Clancy were put to a severe test.

Before the Point was reached, the stern of the other canoe was even with Merry’s position in the bow of his own craft. Bleeker had the inside, and he went so close to the perpendicular wall of the cliff that his paddle touched the base of the rocks. He looked over at Merry.

“Come on, old man!” he called.