The Whip Hand - A Tale of the Pine Country

PROLOGUE-The Young Man at the Stern A THICK, wet night on the southwest coast of Lake Michigan a dozen years ago; a wind that sweeps over the pitching lake and on over the dim white beach with a rush that whirls the sand up and away. Trees are bending up there on the bluff. The sand and the rain are in the air-or do we feel the spray from yonder line of breakers, a hundred yards away? And deep in a mudhole on the lonely road that skirts the bluff-the four horses, fetlock-deep in the sticky clay, straining forward like heroes, the members of the student crew in their oilskins throwing their weight on the wheels of the truck-is the Evanston surf-boat. The driver has pulled his sou'wester hat down on his neck behind and swung the U. S. L. S. S. lantern on his arm; he stands beside the forward wheel, cracks his long whip and swears vigorously. 'Hold on a minute, boys,' he calls over his shoulder; and he must shout it twice before he is heard. 'Whoa, there! Stand back! Now, boys, get your breath and try it together. When I call--- Now. All ready! Let her go!' The men throw themselves on the spokes, the horses plunge forward under the lash of the whip. A moment of straining-an uncertain moment-then the wheels turn slowly forward, the horses' feet draw out with a sucking sound, and the boat rolls ahead. The driver unbuttons his oilskins at the waist and reaches beneath an under coat for his watch. They have been out two hours; distance covered, two miles. Before him is darkness, save where the lantern throws a yellow circle on the ground; behind him is darkness, save for the white boat, the little group of panting, grunting men, and, a long mile to the southward, the gleaming eye of the Grosse Pointe lighthouse, now red, now white. But somewhere in the darkness ahead, somewhere beyond the white of the breakers, a big steamer is pounding herself to pieces on the bar. So he buttons his coat and shifts the reins and swears at the horses.