SCULLING.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LIV, Issue 43, 12 August 1911, Page 7

SCULLING.

ARiNST'S DEFEAT OL<' PEAECK. BRILLIANT RIVER SPECTACLE. (Sydney Telegraph—July 31). A pistol shot, and Harry Pearce's head fell wearily on his breast, in token of distress aiuhdefeat. Dick Arjist lifted a weary hand- 1 ' and dropped it again, acknowledging victory and distress. All around was the gayest, brilliantest throng that ever made holiday on the gay and brilliant Parramatta. The spacious amphitheatre of Abbotsford and Gladeville resounded with salutations to the conqueror and consolation to the conquered. The variegated craft that swarmed in the waterway made a pandemonium of their own. A moment later all was movement and animation, tumult and piercing clamor. In the centre of the arena two athletes, spent and faint, shook hands and panted congratulation or sympathy. Twenty minutes before Harry Pearee had stepped into his boat at Ryde, the best sculler in all Australia, and successor to a line of aquatic kings, to wrest from New Zealand what she had captured from us. He paddled gracefully to the umpire's steamer for instructions. "Doesn't he look well?" and '"Doesn't he look confident!" were the words on the lips of all. His own ut■terance rang with the note of resolution. "Arnst has won the toss, Harry," said the umpire, veteran Bill Beach, t» tVe youthful aspirant. ■' "Aye! Aye!" sard Harry, dutifully, to the Grand Old Man of sculling. "We'look to yon, Harry, to bring it back to us," said a patriot anxious for his country's reputation. ' "Aye! Aye!" said Harry.

"Don't forget, Hatry, I'm on you," said a "sport," thinking of his money. "Aye! Aye!" again from Harry.

It was like the response of a brave man going forth to' combat • and away he sailed still smiling; still radiant, feeling as much confidence in 'himself as he inspired in others, to have it out with Dick Arnst.

THE MEETING. And what did Dick Arnst look like! Xobody knew. He had sculled away to the horizon about the railway bridge, and lounged leisurely along on a short tour of inspection of the beauties of Rydalmcre and Homcbush Hay. He returned and rowed inshore to' cast off a. jersey. Something caught his eye; he had never noticed it before. He satisfied his curiosity, and—recollected an engagement. He had an appointment with Harry Pearce under the bridge at 4 p.m. or so. Pearce was there already! He went across.

There is something distressingly businesslike to the public in these appointments under the railway bridge at 4 p.m. on Saturday afternoon. None of your starters with, flag and pistol; no coxswain in front, and seven good and true men behind; no fretting and chafing as they back and fill; no shouting of orders or semaphoring of arms. Just two men left to themselves and their own devices, while a few thousand spectators hold decently aloof at a respectful quarter of u mile. What Hanlan said to Beach, and the reply our hero' made, were natural to the litness of things. Those lonely meetings -on the' face of the wait, a are the supreme moment for the interchange of lierirt-to-'lieart confidences. On Saturday it was all iii good part. Perhaps it was-—-"By-the-bye. are you ready, Harry?" "Aye! Aye!" was the reply without a doubt.

. An instant more, and they were, at it, the moment they had striven for and waited for these months past. You saw two great birds with sharp, slim bodies, (lap their outstretched wings, and come skimming towards you upon the water. And such water! A lively ripple kept them dancing along and glinted in the wake of the boats. But sun and sky and water had all vanished in the twinkling of the start. The two solitary figures in the shadow of the bridge were all the earth and firmament to the spectators just now. The babel begins, and rises crescendo. It's 'Tearce! Pearce!" and ''Harry leads," while the men are still too far away for you to be sure. Nearer they draw, the 'roar swells, the cry is surer. "Quarter of a length," is the shout, and they cheered for "Harry." Half a length now, and the lead is apparent to everyone. Past the umpire's boat they (lash, straining every muscle, and a roar rolls down the expectant river from Uhr's to Blaxland's. from Putney to Mortlake, by every headland from Ryde to Abbotsford. Only a quarter of a mile, and Pearce a length ia the lead!" ARNST NOT HIMSELF. "What's the matter with Anist?" A nervous supporter of the champion ventures the enquiry, and you might well have thought something "was amiss with the New Zcalander. lie was heavy, sluggish, unwieldy; he splashed with his sculls and labored with his body. Rowing like that was not good enough for a champion. The man in front was an artist, making the exercise a delight, clean and graceful, pretty to watch.'"' Only one thing was wrong with Anist. Those huge limbs and gigantic shoulders were not working freely yet: he was not warm yet. But when he is. let any man beware of those limbs and shoulders. Swoop! went the shoulders and the legs, | and the artist in front asked more "of j his muscle. Swoop! again, and the pol--1 ished sculler called on his shoulders for yet more lift, and his legs for yet more drive. He rowed superbly still, the graceful sculler in sky-blue;'but be was "all out," and the time of reckoning for one or the other must come soon. Two lengths' lead at the half-mile steadily dwindled to one at the mile.

"Xot enough! Not enough!" croak the wise-acres, solemnly wagging their I heads; and you would like to pitch them overboard. But they were right. Pearce had tried his antagonist out with a brilliant mile, as fast a one as ever was rowed. Did Arnst falter? Did those limbs and shonldi>rs begin to tire? Xot a >ign of it did Pearce detect, and hr struggled on in ;U j eJl'ort to prolong a brilliant mile into a brilliant two-mile, three-mile if need be. But Arnst still swooped on, pitilessly, remorselessly. Would the man astern never tire? Pearce had to spurt now to keep his

lead. But there was no withstanding that merciless, indefatigable swoop. Mack crept closer to blue, still closer. Pearce could spurt no longer. THE DECISIVE STROKE. A man on Bottle Point ran out to the water's edge cheering lustily for Harry. He waved his hat to wave his man on. He stepped on the greasy boulders, and the hat was never waved. For when he recovered his foothold, blank amazement and incredulity were written in every feature. "Well, I'm bothered!" he gasped, and (lung his hat viciously to the ground. The mighty lift and sweep and drive had done their work. Arnst was not crumpled up with a brilliant mile. He was leading. Arnst had struck his blow at his distressed opponent with a timely spurt. Rowing now as a champion should, he had really, as it proved, decided the issue. But I'earee strove manfully on. He was lighting out the cruellest of races, that of a brave man against a better. Bvery headland, every bank spurred him on. Patients at the Walker Hospital flocked to the water to wave their handkerchiefs; nurses fluttered down the lawns, waving aprons. At Putney a select assemblage encouraged him with hoarse whispers as he swung past at their feet. Mortlake was divided, for they knew Arnst there. Indeed, who on the river does not know him? He learnt to row upon it from our own champions; and he is partly ours. But Pearce is altogether ours; so the crowds cheer themselves hoarse. Cabarita .modestly applauds with hand-claps; Gladcsville roars when he gpurts again, and stampedes in mad career to see him come and see him go. They enter the lane of boats, and every whistle adds to the tumult ol" the voices. Two ferry steamers heel over, the water invade* the lower deck, and the passengers jump out of it to the seats. Abbotsford ' springs to its feet when Pearce falters. Water police exhort him personally, for there was a time when the challenger rowed boats for the protection of life and property. Attendants, nurses, doctors, even inmates, run across the fields of the asylum to get a distant view. You get a glimpse of motors and cyclists on the dusty road along the hill-tops, speeding from St. Anne's Church at Ryde in time to be in at the finish. Henley squeezes yet tighter on wharf and rustic road to witness the final flutter. Boys in the. trees get excited and nearly fall out. A photographer on ji roof is in peril of taking ] n header with his camera into the river. ' Tens of thousands of throats, of hun- ' dreds of steam pipes join forces in one grand ensemble of encouragement and ' entreaty. Pearce struggles on, not because ho is cheered to it, but implored to it. "We look to you," they had said to him; and he had answered, "Ave! Aye!"

Pearce's distress in the closing stages of the struggle was oulv too painfully apparent. When he swerved from his course on the way to the monument the crowd on the steamers shouted, "To the right! To the right!" Little he heard of it all. Little did he see of their excited gesticulations of warning. It was Arnst's race. "Four lengths,'' was the judge's verdict: lOmin 46sec—the fastest time on record—was the verdict of the timekeepers. The final spectacle of two strong men, half-exhausted after the struggle, summed up the story of a hard-fought, <v,.i v -f„„j,i )t battle, and the spectacle ashore and alloat will live in the memory as the most brilliant in the history of the river.