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 Page 1

Talking the Talk

Language makes us human, but how do we use it and how do children learn it?
Talking the Talk is an introduction to the psychology of language. Written for the
reader with no background in the area or knowledge of psychology, it explains how
we actually “do” language: how we speak, listen, and read.
This book provides an accessible and comprehensive introduction to psycho-
linguistics, the study of the psychological processes involved in language. It shows
how it’s possible to study language experimentally, and how psychologists use
these experiments to build models of language processing. The book focuses on
controversy in modern psycholinguistics, and covers all the main topics, including
how children acquire language, how language is related to the brain, and what can
go wrong – and what can be done when something does go wrong.
Structured around questions that people often ask about language, the
emphasis of Talking the Talk is how scientific knowledge can be applied to practi-
cal problems. This book also stresses how language is related to other aspects of
psychology, particularly in whether animals can learn language, and the relation
between language and thought.
Lively and amusing, the book will be essential reading for all undergraduate
students and those new to the topic, as well as the interested lay reader.

Trevor A. Harley completed his undergraduate degree and PhD at the University of
Cambridge. He moved to the University of Dundee in 1996 from the University of
Warwick. He holds a Personal Chair in Cognitive Psychology and is currently Head
of the School of Psychology. He is a Chartered Psychologist and his main research
interest is in normal and pathological speech production.

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Talking the Talk

Language, Psychology and Science

Trevor A. Harley

11:38:25:11:09 Page 3
 Page 4

First published 2010 The publisher makes no representation,

by Psychology Press express or implied, with regard to the
27 Church Road, Hove, East Sussex, BN3 2FA accuracy of the information contained in this
book and cannot accept any legal
Simultaneously published in the USA and responsibility or liability for any errors or
Canada omissions that may be made.
by Psychology Press
270 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 British Library Cataloguing in Publication
Data
This edition published in the A catalogue record for this book is available
Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2010. from the British Library

To purchase your own copy of this or any of Library of Congress Cataloging-in-

Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s Publication Data
collection of thousands of eBooks Harley, Trevor A.
please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk. Talking the talk : languge, psychology and
science / Trevor Harley.
Psychology Press is an imprint of the Taylor & p. cm.
Francis Group, an Informa business Includes bibliographical references and
index.
Copyright © 2010 Psychology Press
ISBN 978-1-84169-339-2 (hb : alk. paper)
– ISBN 978-1-84169-340-8 (solf cover : alk.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may paper) 1. Psycholinguistics. I. Title.
be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any BF455.H27133 2010
form or by any electronic, mechanical, or 401′.9–dc22
other means, now known or hereafter 2009026996
invented, including photocopying and
recording, or in any information storage or ISBN 0-203-85303-2 Master e-book ISBN
retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publishers.
ISBN: 978-1-84169-339-2 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-84169-340-8 (pbk)

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Dedication

To Siobhan, Sheila, Hazel, and Bill too

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 Page 6

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Contents
Contents

List of figures ix
Preface xi

1 Language 1

2 Animals 31

3 Children 49

4 Thought 89

5 Meaning 117

6 Words 145

7 Understanding 187

8 Speaking 221

vii

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CONTENTS

9 End 255

Next 265

Glossary 279
References 293
Author index 326
Subject index 335

viii

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Figures
List of figures

1.1 The structure of the human vocal tract 6

1.2 Part of a simplified family tree for
some Indo-European languages 13
1.3 The location of Wernicke’s area and
Broca’s area 18
2.1 The waggle dance 33
2.2 Another of Premack’s chimpanzees,
Elizabeth 42
4.1 Comparison of colour hue division in
English, Shona, Bassa, and Dani 106
4.2 Hierarchy of colour names 107
4.3 Interactions between our thoughts,
our mind, and the world 115
5.1 Part of a Collins and Quillian type
semantic network 124
5.2 A small portion of my semantic network 125
5.3 The Hinton and Shallice model of
deep dyslexia 133
6.1 Portion of a TRACE-style network 152
6.2 The dual-route model of reading 160
6.3 The triangle model of reading 168
7.1 A parse tree for “The old man jumped
quickly into the boat” 189
7.2A Parse tree: “The burglars stole” 195

ix

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LIST OF FIGURES

7.2B Parse tree: “The burglars stole all the statues in the house” 195
7.2C Parse tree: “The burglars stole all the statues in the night” 196
7.3 Noun phrase and verb phrase attachment structures 201
8.1 Garrett’s model of speech production 229
8.2 The two-stage model of lexical access 237
8.3 Mediated priming 238
9.1 The overall structure of the language system 262

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Preface
Preface

I am lucky enough to be the author of a successful text on

the psychology of language. I know it must be successful
because it’s reached its third edition. Why then does
the world need yet another book on the psychology of
language, particularly another by Trevor Harley?
I hope this book will find a different readership from
my text The Psychology of Language – although of course I
hope eventually everyone will read both. I think there is
room for a more introductory book; I also hope there is
room for something a bit more personal. There are a num-
ber of popular and semi-popular books on language
already available, but I think this is the most up-to-date one
about the processes involved in producing and understand-
ing language. I want it to be read by psychology and lin-
guistics undergraduates, by people who want to learn
about the subject before university, and, perhaps most
importantly of all, by the lay reader. In short, I hope that it
will be perfect reading for anyone who wants to know
about how we think and how we communicate. With a bit
of luck, the film rights will soon follow.
I hope therefore that it’s also one of the most
approachable books on the subject. I think that the psych-
ology of language has become an increasingly complex and
difficult subject over the past 10 years or so. The third
edition (2008) of my text is considerably longer and harder

xi

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P R E FA C E

than the first (1995). The subject is certainly one many undergraduates find
difficult, I think for two main reasons.
First, there is now so much material available. My main text is already huge,
but still some researchers and teachers wanted me to include more about this topic,
while others wanted more of that topic. Clearly there are limits to how big a text
can be! Indeed, I think the world needs a shorter overview, not a longer one. Brevity
can only be achieved at the cost of selection, and my personal preferences and
interests reveal themselves in this selection. Omitting something, however, is bound
to upset someone.
The second reason people find the psychology of language difficult is that
often it is difficult to come to any conclusion other than “we don’t yet know”. We
are often left with two (or more!) alternative explanations of the same data, and it is
rare that we can say with near certainty that this is how the mind always works.
This lack of certainly is unsettling. In this book, although I’ve obviously tried to be
balanced, I have tried to come to some definite conclusion more often, which means
saying what I think is the more likely or compelling conclusion. I could of course be
wrong, and again it will offend people. I’ve tried to avoid going into the details of
the arguments and counter-arguments that pervade modern psycholinguistics, and I
hope the consequences are clarity and simplicity – but not over-simplicity.
Because I’ve wanted to tell more of a story, I’ve avoided putting too many
detours around the main theme, and I’ve tried to keep the number of references to a
minimum. If I’ve missed something important out, I’m sorry. Not everything can be
included. Although I’ve tried to show something of the controversies active in
current research, for a book such as this I think the tried-and-tested results are more
robust and their contribution to knowledge easier to assess, so there is a bias
towards older references (say, compared with my text) – these older references, as
well as standing the test of time, also often contain the first systematic description
of the basic data that often remain to be fully explained. Because I’m trying to tell a
story, I think the book is best read like a novel, from beginning to end; it’s not
meant to be dipped into. The section with further reading (“Next”) also contains
some sidelines and additional ideas that would have disrupted the flow of the main
text if they’d been put there.
So in addition to being shorter, more selective, more approachable, and per-
sonal, this book might be more upsetting to more people; perhaps the more people
it upsets, the more successful it has been. The last thing I want to do, though, is
upset someone because of an inaccuracy, or misreporting or misunderstanding
something. One of the most time-consuming aspects of writing a book such as this
is checking things. Nevertheless, I will be amazed if some errors haven’t crept in. If
you spot any, or think I have presented something unfairly, I’d love to know about
it, preferably by email (currently [email protected]).
I have one other wish, and that is that this book goes some way to persuading
people that cognitive psychology is a real science. Psychology sometimes gets a bad

xii

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P R E FA C E

press: it’s a very broad subject, tackled by many different sorts of approaches, but I
think the experimental (in tandem with the computational–mathematical) approach
has made huge strides in understanding human behaviour. Just because the subject
of the subject is ourselves doesn’t make the enterprise any less scientific. Psychology
is a real science, up there with physics, chemistry, and biology. Indeed, in many
ways if you want to see science working the processes are clearer in psychology.
This preamble just explains the subtitle of the book – and is another reason why the
psychology of language is hard.
I’d like to thank Matt Jarvis, Alan Kennedy, Annukka Lindell, Nick Lund, and
Glen Whitehead for their comments on a draft of this book. I promise I considered
every suggestion made very carefully, even if I didn’t implement them all. It might
of course be that the suggestions I ignored will turn out to have been correct. I am
particularly and eternally grateful to them for helping me avoid making several
potentially very embarrassing errors. I’d particularly like to thank Bill Thompson
for reading a draft with the intelligent lay person’s eye (and brain). I owe him a very
great debt. I haven’t always taken his advice, but seeing the book through his brain
was an exceptionally helpful (if occasionally odd) experience. This book was
planned and written in Scrivener on an Apple iMac. I can’t imagine doing it any
other way. All the photographs (bar one) are my own.

Professor Trevor Harley

University of Dundee
May 2009

xiii

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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 “It looks to me,” he said, “as if they’d managed to get at those
shells. There’s a magnet coil in each of those motor boats they had.”
“Come and look at our shell,” cried Neilson.
Two minutes served to show that Jim’s suspicions had been
correct. The metal was there, under the boat, concealed by the keel.
“I don’t know how they expected to affect one shell and not the
other,” said Dick Merriwell, “but I suppose they had some means of
doing that worked out. I’m off to Gale’s Ferry to look at our shell.
What will you do, Neilson? I think we’ve got time to get old shells
rigged for the crew. It may mean a slow race, but it ought to be as
good for one as for the other.”
“Just exactly as good,” said Neilson. “There’s nothing else to do.
We can get them rigged and ready in time, by hard work. And I
guess the race will be just as good—and it will be rowed on its
merits, too.”
“Could they have reached your shell?” Dick Merriwell asked
Neilson.
“Easily,” replied the Harvard coach. “We never have kept any very
special watch on the shells. We’ve guarded them against fire, but we
never supposed that anything else was necessary.”
“That’s how it was with us,” said Dick. “It could have been done
here, or before we left New Haven. And it’s only sheer good fortune
that enabled us to find it out.”
“I’m no shark in physics,” said Neilson, “but I suppose that the
iron in the two shells may be magnetized in a different degree, so
that one current in the magnet would attract one shell and not the
other.”
“That seems plausible, anyhow,” said Dick. “They could vary the
magnet by regulating the strength of the current.”
At Gale’s Ferry, conditions were the same as those that had been
discovered at Red Top. By dint of tremendous work by the riggers
and the coaches, the new shells, or, rather, the old ones, were
adjusted to the men who were to sit in them, and by two o’clock in
the afternoon, without the knowledge of the oarsmen, the change
had been effected. The first race, that between the varsity four-
oared crews, was to be rowed at three o’clock, upstream. The
freshman race was to follow at once, and then, at six o’clock, the
great race of the day, between the varsity eights, was scheduled.
Jim Phillips, gradually being restored to his full strength, and
fearing no bad effects from his fast and his immersion, stood on the
float with Brady, looking at the gay scene that was developing on
the river. Scores of small boats were about, and the spirit of carnival
was in the air.
“Well, I guess you’ve done your share toward winning this boat
race, if we do win it,” said Bill. “The rest of it is up to the crew.”
“They’ll win, all right,” said Jim, with supreme confidence.
 CHAPTER XXXIII

THE PLOTTERS REFUSE TO QUIT.

One thing both Harvard and Yale could agree on. There couldn’t
have been a better day for the race. The water at the mouth of the
Thames never reaches the degree of mirrorlike smoothness that
exists nearly always at Poughkeepsie, where the other great college
boat race is rowed each year; but the oarsmen get used to the little
chop of the water that is never entirely absent, and don’t mind it at
all.
The day was warm, but not excessively so, and little fleecy clouds,
chasing themselves across the blue sky, showed that the wind was a
light one, quartering over the river from the northwest. That gave
the crew that won the toss, and elected to row the last mile of the
race under the shelter of the bank of the shore by choosing the
westerly course, a slight advantage. Harvard won the toss, and took
that course for the two eight-oared races, leaving it to Yale for the
four, but the advantage was too slight to make it at all likely that it
would be a decisive factor in the race itself.
The Thames is comparatively narrow, for an American river, at
New London, but there is plenty of room for all the yachts that want
to take up positions along the course. Now a double line of vessels,
large and small, white and black, all gayly decked out with lines of
flags, and bearing, as a rule, a great banner between their masts, to
show whether their owners loved best the blue of Yale or the
crimson of Harvard, was stretched along the river from the finishing
point, near Gale’s Ferry, down to the navy yard, two miles away.
There was no room for yachts at the finish itself, except on the
outside, or eastern side of the course, but they were packed there in
glorious array. The big white steam yacht that carried the judges of
the finish was anchored directly opposite the finishing line itself,
which was marked by two flags, and on board of her were the men
who were to give the word for firing the guns that marked the finish,
first for the winners, then for the losers.
Up and down the course, racing excitedly from one point to
another, went the referee’s boat, with Billy Meikleham, the veteran
Columbia oarsman, who had for years been the arbiter of all possible
disputes between Yale and Harvard crews, standing in the bow with
his megaphone, and stopping at Gale’s Ferry and Red Top to assure
himself that all was well with the two crews, and that they were
ready for the great race.
In New London, every train was adding to the crowds that surged
through all the streets near the station. Pretty girls in abundance
flaunted the crimson or the blue. Bill Brady, surveying them as he
looked for his own party, decided that all the prettiest ones wore the
blue, as was only proper, in his eyes. Bowen, the Harvard baseball
captain, who bore no ill-feeling for the defeat of his team, and had
come up to see the race, disagreed with Brady, but Angell, the
former Michigan runner, who, after a year at Yale, was going back to
finish his course at Michigan, said he was impartial now, and voted
for the Yale girls.
The great problem of the early part of the day was getting
something to eat. New London, if you visit it at an off season, when
there isn’t a boat race on, will entertain you royally. The hotels will
strike you as excellent, the food as both cheap and plentiful. But it is
different on boat-race day. Then, at the hotels, they establish a line
for the dining room early in the morning, and people wait for an
hour or two before they can get in at all. However, no one minds
minor privations of that sort.
Down by the station, crowded all day, as parties of friends united
or came all together by the arriving trains, all eyes turned first to the
two great observation trains. One of the things that makes the New
London course the finest in the world for a boat race, is the fact that
there is a railroad on each side of the river, so that two trains at
once can be drawn along to provide moving grand stands for the
spectators, who can thus see every stroke that is pulled in the race.
There are about forty cars on each train, flat freight cars, with a
section of seats, like those in the bleachers of a baseball field, built
on each, and a canvas awning over the seats to protect the
spectators from sun and rain, if the weather man is unkind enough
to let it rain on boat-race day, which, to do him full justice, he very
seldom is.
Presently these trains, with an engine at each end of them, would
pull out, loaded to their utmost capacity with pretty girls and excited
men, a mass of waving color, riotous in the bright sunlight, with
cheers rocking them from end to end. But that was to come later. In
the morning they simply served as reminders of the great race that
was to come.
But it wasn’t all joy in New London. To most of those who had
seen or heard of it, the sinking of the Marina was a mysterious
incident, to be discussed for a few minutes, and then forgotten. But
to Svenson, Barrows, and their companions it was a stunning blow,
almost crushing in its effect, and utterly inexplicable. They had no
difficulty in making their escape from the sinking vessel, and, safe,
but bewildered and furious, had fore-gathered some time later at an
obscure and dirty saloon in a low part of the town.
“That’s that devil Phillips,” said Barnes, with a certain gloomy
satisfaction. “I told you you were making a fool of yourself, Barrows.
He’s been too clever for you.”
Svenson, who had been drinking as fast as his glass could be
replenished, was in a furious rage.
“What about my boat?” he cried furiously. “It will cost a thousand
dollars to make her seaworthy again. And there’s no insurance.”
 “Never mind your boat,” said Barrows. “We’ll clean up enough to
fix her up, and we’ll divide the cost equally.”
“Clean up nothing,” said Barnes sarcastically. “You’re skunked,
Barrows. Your scheme is knocked into a cocked hat. Don’t you know
enough to know when you’re beaten?”
“Beaten?” cried Barrows. “I guess not. We didn’t need the Marina
to put that through. We’ll be all right, I tell you. The plan goes
through without any change at all. Everything will work all right.
There’s no way they can have got on to us. It’s a bad thing that
Phillips, if he was the one, got away, and worse that he sank the
Marina, if he did. And I suppose he must have. But there’s no reason
why we should curl up and quit like a lot of whipped curs.”
“Have it your own way,” said Barnes, with a sneer. “All I know is
that old Bill Harding expected something of this very sort to happen.
He’s a wise guy, Bill. He’s well out of this, and he saw that early in
the game.”
“Do you seriously think there’s a chance to put it through still?”
asked the trembling Dennison, who had joined them in the saloon. “I
thought it was all up when I heard you had lost the Marina.”
“Why should it be?” asked Barrows, with a curse. “We’ve still got
the motor boats, haven’t we? I’ll take one of them, Svenson another,
and Bascom, the wireless man, the third. Bascom’s all right. He’s
down, watching the boats now. I guess we can make that race come
out just about as we want, even now.”
“Who wants to quit?” snarled Svenson. “I’ve got to put this
through now, or I’ll never get the money for my boat. I don’t
suppose any of you cheap skates are going to make that up to me
unless I do it for myself. And you’ve forgotten the other thing, too,
Barrows.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said Barrows. “But I’m the only one who can
work that. Barnes, I thought you had some nerve. I didn’t think you
had a yellow streak big enough to make you quit at the first sign of
trouble. That’s not the way you used to work for Harding.”
 “I’m no quitter,” said Barnes, flushing. “You’re up against a cold
deal here, but I’ll stand in with you to the finish. What do you want
me to do?”
“Take one of the motor boats,” said Barrows. “You know how to
work that end of it. That will leave me free in case anything goes
wrong with that plan.”
“All right,” said Barnes. “Count me in. Are you going to monkey
with the two early races—the freshman and the four, or will you stick
to the big race?”
“Just the big race,” said Barrows, looking satisfied.
 CHAPTER XXXIV

WON IN THE LAST STROKES.

Jim Phillips, in the light of the surprising discovery of the loaded

keels of the two shells, had not forgotten what he had seen on the
marked map. As he went down the river before the four-oared race,
which was to start at the bridge, he looked eagerly at the points
along the course that had been indicated on the map, but he could
see nothing to arouse suspicion. However, that did not fully convince
him that they had drawn all the teeth of the plotters by changing the
shells in which the race was to be rowed. It was unlikely that there
would be any attempt to interfere with the minor races—Barrows
and his crowd would, undoubtedly, confine themselves to the varsity
contest.
The three Yale coaches, with Jim Phillips and Bill Brady as specially
invited guests, were in the Elihu Yale to watch the race between the
four-oared shells, following behind the referee’s boat, so as not to
interfere in any way with the oarsmen. The four, though it had been
under the general supervision of Dick Merriwell, like all the other
crews, had been the especial charge of Hargreaves, who was very
proud of the quartet he had trained, and fully confident of their
ability to beat the Harvard crew, although the latter had been a
favorite up to the very hour of the race, being the same crew that
had established a new record for two miles for four-oared crews the
year before.
At the sound of the referee’s pistol, Harvard got away slightly in
the lead, rowing fast and at a high stroke. But Hargreaves had
coached his men for just such a start. He was not afraid of any lead
Harvard got in the first mile, and the Yale four, rowing in perfect
form, was content to keep its own pace and let Harvard open up
clear water before the first flags were reached. The Harvard
enthusiasts in the two trains were wild with delight, for it looked like
an easy victory for Harvard. But, at the mile flags, the aspect of the
race began to change. The Harvard crew was rowing as well as ever,
but Yale began rapidly to overhaul it, and soon the twinkling space
of clear water was wiped out. Inch by inch, then, Yale crept up, and
a quarter of a mile from the finish there was a tremendous Yale
cheer as the prow of the Yale shell showed in front for the first time
in the race.
It was hammer and tongs then to the finish, but Yale had the pace
of the Harvard boat, and, when the first gun boomed out, it was as
Yale crossed the line, winner of a desperate race by a margin of less
than two seconds—half a length or less. It wasn’t much, but it was a
victory. First blood for Yale, and a good omen for the bigger race
later on.
“Good work!” said Merriwell, as the coaching launch swept up
alongside the tired oarsmen, who were splashing each other and
looking lovingly at the shirts their friendly rivals had tossed them.
“That’s the idea—show the varsity how to win.”
But there was little time for talk. The four-oared crews got their
breath, then paddled over to the eastern shore and swung up
together, to reach the finish of the course and see how the freshmen
fared. And the freshmen eight-oared crews, ready for their own two-
mile race, were awaiting the referee’s gun. It came, and the race
began.
But this wasn’t a race very long. Harvard started well enough, and
was always game, but the Yale freshmen were a remarkable crew,
and they won as they pleased, with ten lengths of open water
behind them and before the Harvard crew at the finish.
 Yale’s enthusiasm was unlimited. Here was the best of starts. Now
every Yale rooter on the trains was shouting for a clean sweep of the
river, for the winning of all three races. It had been done before—
why shouldn’t Dick Merriwell’s crews repeat the feat?
Harvard was grimly determined. True, two races were gone
beyond recall, but the biggest one of all remained. If the big varsity
crew could win, the defeats in the minor races would be forgotten.
Yale was welcome to them—if only Harvard’s crimson waved
triumphant at the end of the greatest contest of all.
Jim Phillips was very thoughtful as the launch went back to
quarters after the freshman race. The varsity oarsmen, who were
elated by the result of the first two races, were all ready now for
their own test. They were superbly confident of their ability to finish
the task the others had begun so well. But Jim himself was
consumed by anxiety. He could not believe that that map had had no
sinister meaning. And Barrows had impressed him as a man not
likely, if care could prevent accident, to leave anything to chance.
Finally he told Dick Merriwell of the map.
“I’ve decided what to do,” he said. “Brady’s people have a
hydroplane here that can make thirty-five miles an hour easily, and I
know enough about that sort of boat to run it. It’s impossible to tell
which of those marked places is the danger spot, but I should say
the one nearest the finish. They won’t know until late in the race
that their magnet coil won’t work. Now, if I have that hydroplane, I
can run right along behind or level with the race, and make sure that
there’s no mischief afoot. How does that strike you?”
“It’s a good plan,” said Dick. “But be careful. Don’t take any more
wild chances. Remember that I’d rather lose this race and every
other that I’m ever going to be interested in, than see anything
happen to you.”
“I’m safe enough,” said Jim, with a laugh. “But I’ll be careful, too.
You needn’t worry.”
 The hydroplane was down the river, near the starting point, and
Jim went immediately to get aboard, the Elihu Yale carrying him
down. It was five o’clock, and in an hour the race would begin. So
Jim felt there was no time to lose. But, to get a last look, he tore up
the course in the hydroplane, startling every one by the swift rush of
the tiny boat with the huge engine, which skimmed along, half out
of the water, and kicking up a tremendous wash.
Coming back, he slowed down, and looked most carefully for any
signs of danger at the third point marked on the map, near Red Top.
But there was none. Further down he saw the three motor boats
that had belonged to the Marina, and recognized Svenson and
Barnes with a chuckle. They, at least, were harmless, he reflected,
no matter what they might think of their power to affect the
outcome of the race. It was just as well they didn’t know, he
decided, that their plan had been defeated.
When he returned to the starting point, the two crews were
already there, climbing gingerly out of the coaching launches and
into the frail shells that were to carry them in the race. Getting
aboard a racing shell from a launch is a delicate affair, but these men
were all practiced in the art, and when the referee’s boat finally
steamed into position behind the stake boats, the two crews were
already there, aligned for the start, with a man in each stake boat,
holding the stern of the shell before him.
Jim had to forego much of a sight of the start. He had to edge far
over to the eastern shore with his noisy, tempestuous little craft, and
the yachts were in his way. But, as he hung there, below the railroad
bridge, he heard the sharp crack of the pistol, then a mighty roar
from the train on the bridge above him, and he knew that they were
off.
Swiftly, keeping well ahead of the oarsmen, but going not more
than half speed, even so, to reduce the wash, Jim shot his
hydroplane to the mile mark, and looked to see if there was any
explanation there of the mark on the map. There was none. He
would look at the course here, and he edged over as near as he
could. He could not suppress a cry of joy at what he saw. The two
racing shells were speeding toward him, and Yale led.
Yale was ahead by nearly a quarter of a length—a great margin in
such a race. On the other side of the course he could see one of the
Marina’s motor boats, but he did not recognize its passenger. All the
same, he laughed.
“He’s on the wrong side of the course,” he reflected. “He’s nearer
to Harvard.”
The man in the motor boat stood up to get a better view, and
then Jim, who was equipped with a powerful glass, saw him bend
over and throw a switch. There was not the slightest effect on the
progress of either of the shells, and the man in the motor boat,
looking astonished and distressed, stood up again. Jim laughed
again, but he could not wait. Again he sped up ahead of the shells,
and, at the navy yard, Yale still led by about the same margin as at
the mile. It was still a race that either crew might win. They had
settled down to a steady pace now, rowing about thirty-four strokes
to the minute, and Jim knew, as well as the oarsmen themselves,
that the crucial phase of the struggle had not yet arrived.
They were waiting for the last mile, in which, when crews that are
so evenly matched as were these two, met, the issue is nearly
always decided. Yale had the advantage, for she was ahead, and so
could wait for Harvard to challenge her lead. All the blue needed for
a victory was to hold her own. Now, when the final test came, it was
for Yale to meet each added Harvard stroke, to come back with an
extra pound of power for every one that Harvard applied, and so
maintain her slender lead.
Once they were past the navy yard, and halfway through the race,
Jim called sharply to the mechanic who was behind him.
“Take the wheel, now,” he said. “Keep her as I tell you. I don’t
know what I may have to do, but I want to be ready for anything
that comes along.”
 Barrows’ last chance to interfere with the race would soon be at
hand, as Jim well knew. Two of the places marked on the map had
been passed, but the third remained, and Jim felt that there matters
would be decided. He was willing to see Harvard win fairly, though it
would disappoint him. But he was not going, if there was any way in
which he could prevent it, to allow a crooked scheme to destroy
Yale’s chances.
Now the red buildings of Red Top showed close before him, and
the yachts were growing more numerous as the finish line
approached. He kept his eyes wide open, and at last he saw what he
was looking for. In front of him, but nearer the course than he was
himself, was a small boat, an ordinary launch, such as can be
cheaply hired at any seashore resort. And in the launch, shading his
eyes as he stood up and peered eagerly down the course, was
Barrows.
“Get as close as you can to that launch,” Jim commanded. And the
hydroplane, going very slowly now, crept up. The racing boats were
still a quarter of a mile away. Jim could not be sure, but it looked as
if Yale still led—as if Harvard had not yet begun her final attempt to
cut down that tiny lead.
Jim, studying Barrows closely, saw him looking in surprise and
anger at the crews that were approaching. Then the gambler’s face
lighted up, and Jim, following his gaze, saw the third of the Marina’s
motor boats, containing Svenson, behind him. He had missed her as
he came up the river.
Svenson bent down and threw his switch. But, of course, there
was no effect on the Yale crew. Barrows threw up his hands with a
gesture of anger, then dropped swiftly below the gunwale of his
launch. Jim could not see what he was doing, but he stood up in his
own frail craft, tense and poised for anything that might be needful.
And then, just as the two shells were abreast of him, Barrows
lifted something over the side of the craft and dropped it into the
water.
 Like a flash, at Jim’s sharp order, the hydroplane shot forward
twenty yards, then stopped, as Jim dived over and came upon the
thing that Barrows had launched toward the Yale crew. Under the
water, he turned its course, and a moment later saw it strike,
harmlessly, against the side of the launch whence it had started. It
was a miniature torpedo, containing no explosive, and run and
steered by clockwork. Jim had seen them before, used in shipyards
as models. He knew how to stop the mechanism, and in a moment
he had it in the hydroplane, and was tearing up to the finish to see
the result of the race.
It was a magnificent drive that Harvard made. But Yale met every
attempt to rob her of her hard-won lead, and, in time that was a
new record for the course, Yale shot over the line a winner, less than
two seconds before the second gun boomed for the Harvard crew,
beaten, but game to the end, after one of the greatest races ever
rowed.
“Here was Barrows’ last card,” said Jim, after the race, when every
one was back at Gale’s Ferry. “This thing is a model torpedo. It’s
worked by clockwork, and it would have made an awful mess of our
shell. It wouldn’t have damaged it much, but it would have thrown
the men off their stroke, and would certainly have cost us the race.”
So the scheme that Barrows had evolved was spoiled. Svenson
lost his boat; Dennison and Barrows lost the money they had put up,
and they had, moreover, to admit that Harding had been right.
As for Jim, among those who learned of the way in which he had
saved Yale from defeat, he was more popular than ever. And one of
those most hearty in his congratulations was Neilson, the Harvard
coach, who took defeat splendidly, and simply said he hoped for
better luck the next time the crews met.
Dick Merriwell, on his return to New Haven with the team, hinted
slyly that there would be one more baseball game to conclude the
season. The men of the team were curious, and asked who the
game was to be played with, but Dick was noncommittal and merely
said to them:
“Wait!”
 CHAPTER XXXV

BOSTON WANTS ITS REVENGE.

A good many Yale men returned to New Haven after the boat race
at New London. The college year was over, it was true, but there
was still plenty to do around the old college town, and Yale men are
particularly loyal to the campus. They hate to go away, especially in
the pleasant warm days of June. Packing for the trip home for the
long vacation is made to consume several days, as a rule, and there
were odds and ends of various tasks to be completed.
The last weeks of the spring term had been so eventful, and so
thoroughly filled with exciting athletic events, that Jim Phillips, the
newly elected varsity baseball captain, and a number of his friends,
found that they had no choice about returning.
So they were there, in Jim’s rooms in York Street, when the little
gathering was thrown into a state of pleasurable surprise by the
entrance of Dick Merriwell, the universal coach, under whose
tutelage Yale teams had just completed the greatest year of athletic
triumphs in the history of the college.
“I see you can’t keep away,” he said, laughing. “It is a hard place
to get away from. I’ve found that out a good many times before any
of you ever came here to college at all.”
“I thought you were going up to Maine,” said Bill Brady. “That was
what we heard after the boat race.”
 “So I am,” said Dick. “But that’s later. There’s a whole lot to be
done yet before I can get up there. Things that won’t keep. My
business up in Maine will do very well when I get back from
Stockholm.”
Jim Phillips sat up in sudden interest, and Bill Brady groaned
comically.
“Were you serious in what you said at New London, Mr.
Merriwell?” asked Jim. “Is there really a chance for some of us to get
taken to Sweden on the Olympic team?”
“There’s a good deal more than a chance,” said Dick. “It’s rapidly
becoming a matter of sheer patriotism for some of us to go. America
has won every Olympic meet that has been held, you know, since
the first revival of the old games at Athens in eighteen-ninety-six.
That was the first time our athletes ever were taken seriously on the
other side. They thought the little team we sent over for that meet
was a joke. No one regarded us as serious competitors for the
Englishmen. But we beat them there; we beat them in Athens again
in nineteen-six, as we did in Paris in nineteen hundred, and you all
know how our fellows cleaned up the meet in London in nineteen-
eight.”
“Tempest, of course, we all expected to go,” said Harry Maxwell,
who was strictly out of Olympic discussions. He was a good baseball
player, but not in line for any track or field events.
“I know Tempest is the best sprinter in America,” said Dick, “and
I’m inclined to think that he’s the best short-distance runner, up to
the quarter mile, in the world. But there are several men here who
can do good work. You, Brady, ought to shine in the hammer-
throwing event. Jim, I expect you to try for the broad jump,
certainly, and perhaps for some other events. And I think I’ll go into
training myself.”
Dick Merriwell was no longer eligible to compete for Yale, but that
he was out of college did not at all bar him from the Olympic games.
Jim and some of the others had forgotten that fact. They were so
used to regarding Dick as the master coach that they were likely to
forget that this knowledge of all sorts of sports had been gained by
active practice of them. He was a practical expert, as well as a
master of theory.
“I say,” said Brady, sitting up, “I guess those Swedes are going to
learn a few things about American athletics, even this year. What?”
“It’s going to be a mighty close meet,” said Dick. “The Anglo-
Saxon race has been at the top of the heap a long time, but some of
the other nations are beginning to wake up. They’ve got a fine
jumper in Germany; the Swedes have great long-distance runners,
and you want to remember that an Italian won the half-mile race at
the last meet. Another Italian won the Marathon, but he was
disqualified, too. This isn’t going to be a dual meet between England
and America by a good deal. It will be a whole lot more.”
The talk continued along these lines for a few minutes. Then Dick
Merriwell spoke up again.
“I didn’t come in to talk about the Olympics, though,” he said.
“There’s time enough for that. But there’s something a lot nearer
home. I was noncommittal about this matter the other day when
you asked me about it, but now I am going to tell you all about it.
You fellows may remember that we had a game here a while ago
between the New Haven Country Club and the Boston Athletic
Association, in which Jim Phillips pitched. Well, the Boston people
weren’t very keen about taking their licking without trying to come
back at us, and they’ve challenged for another game. They’ve got
practically the whole Harvard team as members, and Briggs and
Bowen will be their battery. They think it would be interesting if
another game was arranged, with as many Yale players as possible
playing for New Haven. It would really, if their desires were met, be
practically another Harvard-Yale game.
“I promised to see what could be done, and the country club
people appointed me to act as captain of a team, if it could be
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