Deacon could easily see the Shelburne crew now--big men all, ideal
oarsmen to look at. Their faces were set and grim, their eyes
straight ahead. So far as they gave indication, their shell might
have been alone on the river. Now the Baliol shell had made sternway
sufficient for the man in the skiff to seize the rudder. The
Shelburne boat was already secured. Astern hovered the referee's boat,
the official standing in the bow directing operations. Still astern
was a larger craft filled with favoured representatives of the two
colleges, the rival coaches, the crew-managers and the like.
"Are you all ready, Baliol?"
"Yes, sir." Deacon, leaning forward, felt his arms grow tense.
"Are you all ready, Shelburne?"
The affirmative was followed by the sharp report of a pistol. With a
snap of his wrist Deacon beveled his oar, which bit cleanly into the
water and pulled. There followed an interval of hectic stroking,
oars in and out of the water as fast as could be done, while spray
rose in clouds and the coxswain screamed the measure of the beat.
"Fine, Baliol." The coxswain's voice went past Deacon's ear like a
bullet. "Both away together and now a little ahead at forty-two to
the minute. But down now.
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