Down--down--down--down! That's
it--thirty-two to the minute. It's a long race, remember.
Shelburne's dropping the beat, too. You listen to Papa, all of you;
he'll keep you wise. Number three, for God's sake don't lift all the
water in the river up on your blade at the finish. Shelburne's
hitting it up a bit. Make it thirty-four."
"Not yet." Deacon scowled at the tense little coxswain. "I'll do the
timing." Chick Seagraves nodded.
"Right. Thirty-two."
Swinging forward to the catch, his chin turned against his shoulder,
Deacon studied the rival crew which with the half-mile flags
flashing by had attained a lead of some ten feet. Their blades were
biting the water hardly fifty feet from the end of his blade, the
naked brown bodies moving back and forth in perfect rhythm and with
undeniable power registered in the snap of the legs on the
stretchers and the pull of the arms. Deacon's eyes swept the face of
the Shelburne coxswain; it was composed. He glanced at the stroke.
The work, apparently, was costing him nothing.
"They're up to thirty-four," cried Seagraves as the mile flags drew
swiftly up.
"They're jockeying us, Chick. We'll show our fire when we get ready.
Let 'em rave."
Vaguely there came to Deacon a sound from the river-bank--Shelburne
enthusiasts acclaiming a lead of a neat half a length.
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