The fifty-yard swimming race for boys under sixteen brought out a large number of entries, Chicora offering seven of the number. Her hopes rested on “Kid” Rooke. With such a large field there was lots of crowding and splashing at the line, and many a good swimmer was put out of it at the start. Rooke luckily had the forethought to swim under water for the first eight or ten strokes and so avoided some of the youths who, with little hope of winning themselves, were anxious to get in the way of dangerous rivals. It was a pretty contest from start to finish, Rooke fighting it out to the very end with Peterson of Wickasaw and White of Trescott and only winning by an arm’s length in fifty seconds. The race over the same course for the elder boys proved a walkover for an eighteen-year-old Wickasaw youth, who never had to hurry, and finished in forty-seven seconds.
In the half-mile event Tom entered for Chicora and found himself opposed to two Wickasaw and three Trescott fellows. The course was laid straight out from the landing to a boat moored off Bass Island. The swimmers were to round the boat and return on the same course. The six contestants lined up on the edge of the landing and at the word from Mr. Powers of the Wickasaw Camp dove head foremost and struck out for the stake-boat.
Tom wasn’t much at sprinting, and so when half the distance out had been covered he was several yards behind the leaders. But the pace had been a fast one, and Tom knew that sooner or later it must slow down. And it did. As the six approached the boat, the leaders, two Trescott fellows, were swimming at ordinary speed and were making hard work of it. They turned homeward first, but after that dropped rapidly behind. A quarter of the way back Tom, still swimming the same stroke he had started with, passed them and pulled himself into third place. Twenty yards farther on he came abreast of the Wickasaw crack; while, still maintaining a good lead, sped the third Trescott entry.
On the landing and along the curving shore of the cove and out on the point scantily attired youths were jumping and shouting encouragement to the swimmers. Cheers for Chicora, for Wickasaw, and for Trescott mingled. A hundred yards from the finish it seemed that Trescott had the race beyond a doubt. But Tom, twenty yards in the rear and well past the Wickasaw rival, still swam steadily, hand over hand, burying his face in the water at every stroke, and putting every ounce of strength into his work. Not quite every ounce, either, for when some eighty yards from the finish his arms began to move just a little faster but not less regularly, and the distance between first and second men slowly lessened. Chicora saw this and her cheers took on a more hopeful note.