“Bow side, raise your hands!” yelled the cox. “Get her level! Six, throw more weight out-board. That’s better! Now hard, all! We can do it yet!”

Dick, with dismay at heart, had seen the rival boat creep up and pass them, and had listened despairingly to cox’s words:

“Four’s given out!”

Then came the command to Five to throw water over Trevor. Dick, not daring to turn his head for an instant, rowed on desperately, watching Keene’s face for any glimmer of hope that might show thereon.

“No use,” said cox presently in low tones. “He’s a goner! His oar’s trailing. Hello! Easy now!”

Dick saw the light of hope creep into the other’s eyes.

“Mind oars, Five and Seven! Four’s gone over the side!”

And then Dick caught sight of a brown arm gleaming just under the surface, and as he once more took up the stroke, far astern a dripping head emerged, was visible for a moment, and again disappeared under the dancing[266] wavelets. Dick closed his eyes, an awful horror gripping him. Trevor had gone down!

“Careful, Stroke! Take your time!” cautioned Keene.

Dick opened his eyes again and looked up the stream, and hope came to him. One of the launches—it looked like the Terrible—had crossed into the wakes of the shells. If Trevor only came up again! Dick cried within him. And even while his thoughts took the form of a wild, incoherent prayer he saw the launch circle to port and stop. And when she once more swung about the sunlight glowed on a dripping crimson shirt.

“Safe!” cried Dick aloud. Keene nodded and glanced anxiously ahead. Dick with thankful heart tugged stoutly at his oar.

“Where are they?” he gasped.

“Three lengths ahead,” answered Keene. “We’re holding them now.” He raised his voice. “Six, you’ve got to do two men’s work now! Long and steady does it! Bow, you’re late! Steady all!”

The mile buoy was far astern. St. Eustace, rowing well at thirty-six, was, as Keene had said, three lengths in the lead. Trevor’s dead weight and dragging oar had given her her chance. Her crew had seen the trouble in the Hillton shell, and, whatever their emotions were, they were now confident of success, for a three-length lead and eight oars to seven spelled victory for the Blue. The St. Eustace[267] coxswain glanced back over his shoulder and gave a command to the men. The distance had not increased since the Crimson’s Number 4 had gone overboard; that wouldn’t do. The blue-clad eight hit up their stroke. But Keene had been watching and waiting. He would rather have had the struggle come later, in the last half mile; but there was no help for it.

“Now, fellows, ten hard ones and together! Swing out and use your legs! One!... Two!... Three!...”

For the first time in the race the seven boys put every bit of weight and muscle into their strokes. They all knew what the words meant; St. Eustace, somewhere ahead there, was spurting and trying to draw away; if she succeeded it was all up with them. Backs bent and sprang, slides sped from stop to stop, arms and legs straightened and doubled until muscles knotted like ropes beneath tanned skin, blades cleaved the surface like ruddy knives and emerged yards distant to skim and flash over the swirling, racing water for the next grip, breaths came in deep gasps, and the shell flew forward, seeming rather to skim the surface as a darting swallow skims the bosom of a pond, than to cleave the glinting water.

“Seven!... Eight!... Nine!... Ten!” counted the coxswain. “Don’t slacken! Keep her going! We’re gaining on them hand over fist! Hard, all, hard, and use your legs for all that’s in ’em!”

And gaining they were. With seven oars instead of[268] eight, with a boat that listed plainly to bow-side, they were gaining! St. Eustace’s coxswain looked back again; again shrieked to his crew. But this time the response was not evident. They were doing their best. As the beginning of the last half-mile was reached the voice of the bobbing figure in the stern of the St. Eustace shell came to Dick’s ears, and his heart leaped at the sound:

“Hit her up! Hit her up! Hit her up!”

Dick, his face streaming with perspiration, his hands burning on the oar-handle, peeked out of the corners of his eyes to the left for a glimpse of the screaming cox. But not yet. His boat was gaining, swiftly, steadily, but three lengths is a long distance to cut down with your rivals rowing at forty strokes to the minute.

“Lengthen out, Stroke!” called Keene.

The seven rowers steadied down and swung longer. The mile and one half point was already far astern, and Keene could see the faces of the crowds at the finish distinctly. For the first time since the start he met Dick’s eyes and smiled. Then, and as it seemed to Dick, from almost at his side, came a shrill cry:

“Eyes in the boat, Seven! Finish out, Six, finish out!”

It was the St. Eustace coxswain, and at the same moment a speck trembled just within the fie............