AT THE FINISH
“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 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 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 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 field of Dick’s vision at the left. The
next instant it took shape; he could see the rival boat’s rudder, a
portion of the stern, with the steering lines white and gleaming in
the sunlight. They were almost even! He was conscious of a new sound,
quite distinct from the working of the slides, the rattle of the locks
and the rush of oars--a confused murmur that gradually took shape
and resolved itself into the cheering of human voices. Surely the
finish-line was at hand! He glanced at Keene. That youth, white beneath
the tan of his face, with perspiration standing upon his forehead in
little glistening beads, was looking straight ahead, with every thought
straining toward the goal.
“Now, once more, all!” screamed the St. Eustace coxswain. “Pick her up!
You’re not half rowing! Five, steady down! Four, you’re late, you’re
late! Row! Row!”
And then the little red-haired youth also crept into Dick’s sight; a
pale-faced, despairing figure, crouching there in the stern, bobbing
forward and back as though to hurl his boat across the line by his own
unaided efforts. One glance at his face brought a flood of joy to Dick!
St. Eustace was already beaten--and that white-faced cox knew it! In
the next minute a qualm of pity for the struggling opponents came to
him, only to be swallowed up in a great wave of triumph as he found
himself opposite to the St. Eustace stroke. The three lengths were gone
and the two boats were even at last!
The shouting from the shore was louder, and Dick could distinguish the
cheers of his schoolmates from the slogan of St. Eustace’s supporters.
But how he wished for the end! His breath seemed gone, and every
respiration shook his body from head to feet. The perspiration on his
face had turned to little drops of ice-water. The river danced and
wavered in his sight. His arms were like bars of lead, and his legs
from hips to toes seemed no longer connected with the upper portion of
him, but were dead, benumbed; he could have put his hand on the very
place where they had been cut off. Surely they were at the line now!
Surely it was time to get into the lead! He glanced appealingly at
Keene.
The latter drew the port rudder-line to him slowly for an inch. Then
he turned toward the speeding boat beside him and looked it over, up
and down; Two was splashing badly; Four was rolling on his seat like a
drunken man; Stroke was plainly worked out; his eyes met those of the
red-haired cox; the latter glared across at him vindictively. He turned
again and ran his eyes over his own boat: Bow was weakening, but still
steady; Six was struggling blindly with half-closed eyes; the balance
of the seven were still strong for that period of a two-mile race. He
looked ahead at the boats and the bridge above, dark with humanity.
“Two hundred yards!” shrieked the St. Eustace coxswain. “Now pick her
up! We’ve got the race if you’ll only take it! Stroke, for Heaven’s
sake, man, pick her up! Row!... Row!... Row!”
Two hundred yards! Dick looked at Keene; the latter nodded. Dick
rattled his hands away quickly.
“Hit her up all!” cried Keene. “Here’s the finish! Row now, row for
Hillton! We’ve got to win!”
“Now then, fellows!” gasped Dick. His blade went under for a hard,
desperate stroke, and the next moment seven bodies were straining at
the oars in a last, heroic endeavor.
“Well done, all! Keep it up! Keep it up! Once more! Well rowed,
fellows! Well rowed! We’re gaining! Use your legs! Well rowed!”
Keene’s voice arose loud and full of encouragement. From across the
little path of intervening water came the shrill reiterant appeals of
the other coxswain:
“Hard! Hard! We’ve got them! Keep going! Another stroke or two! Hard!
Row hard!”
The air was full of the cheers of the excited watchers and the blatant
screams of the whistles of surrounding craft. To Dick it was all a
confused babel of awful sound. He had closed his eyes, fearing to
see the rival boat slipping from sight. But now, gathering courage,
he looked. They were in a lane of assembled craft, from which arose
streams and clouds of steam; beyond the noisy gathering the river bank
was lined with moving throngs; beside him---- His heart sank; the
St. Eustace boat was gone! The little bobbing coxswain, the toiling
stroke oar, were no longer beside him! He looked despairingly at Keene;
something in the latter’s expression sent his glance beyond, and
joy rushed back to his heart. The rival boat was a length behind! He
closed his eyes again from sheer happiness, and tugged on at the oar.
The uproar was deafening, but suddenly, above it all, he heard the
coxswain’s voice:
“_Let her run!_”
* * * * *
When he looked up again, raising his head from his hot, trembling
hands, he found to his surprise that his eyes were wet. They were in
shadow now, and he glanced up to find the arches of the bridge above
them. The noise was less. He blinked through wet lashes at Keene. The
latter was grinning happily, foolishly.
“Length and a quarter, about,” he said.
From the bridge overhead and from the throng beyond came cheers for
Hillton.