“I don’t care what they say about it. What I want to know is what you say about Mr. Jim Welch now. Yesterday he tried to hammer you, to-day he tried to shoot you, and now, although you saved him from drowning this morning, he did his best to knock you out of this race. Is he thoroughly bad or not?” “He is a rascal, that I will admit, but I do not believe him thoroughly bad, Bart.” “Well, you are hard to convince!” cried Hodge, in disgust. “I think you are stubborn—you will not give up when you know you are wrong.” “You do not think that, Hodge,” said Merry, reproachfully; “you must know better.” Not another word would Bart say about it. He paddled along in sulky silence, not even giving heed when Frank thanked him for his act in preventing Welch from fouling. From their boat the judges announced that Frank Merriwell was the winner. When Welch protested, they told him he deliberately turned his canoe in front of Hodge. The fellow could have claimed that Bart was off his course, but he was cautioned to let it drop, being told that it would be better to do that, as his attempt at crooked play would be shown up if he made a fuss about it. So the report went out that the collision came about because Welch got in Hodge’s course; but those who saw everything plainly knew this was not the real cause. For two days Frank Merriwell had kept his identity secret as far as possible, being led to do so because of his experiences in Camden, Rockland and Belfast. Now, however, everybody was asking the name of the winner, and it passed from one to another that it was the great Yale athlete, Frank Merriwell. Two baseball teams had watched the race from the shore. They were the Newports and the M. C. I.’s, of Pittsfield, and the most of them had heard of Merriwell. When they knew he was there at Camp Benson they were eager to get a close look at him. Hundreds of others experienced the same eagerness, and thus it came about that there was a rush of people toward that point of shore that Frank approached. Some one proposed a cheer for Frank Merriwell, and it was given with a hearty will. Then a man cried: “Why, he’s one of them Sandy Point dudes that everybody said wouldn’t cut no ice in the race.” “Mebbe he didn’t cut no ice,” cried another, “but he cut water enough to win first purse.” This caused a laugh. There were scores of pretty girls in the throng, and they regarded the handsome victor admiringly. Merriwell could have flirted with almost any of them had he chosen, although he would have needed a proper introduction to not a few before they would have recognized him. At Camp Benson, however, there seemed to be an unusual freedom, and it was not difficult to get acquainted with almost anyone. Young ladies who would not have thought of such impropriety elsewhere often ventured to flirt mildly with strangers. Bruce Browning was lounging in the shade beneath a tree, with Dunnerwust at his side, awaiting Frank.