"Too much--too much." Deacon shook his head. Either Shelburne was
setting out to row her rival down at the start, or else, as Deacon
suspected, she was trying to smoke Baliol out, to learn at an early
juncture just what mettle was in the rival boat. A game,
stout-hearted, confident crew will always do this, it being the part
of good racing policy to make a rival know fear as early as possible.
And Shelburne believed in herself, beyond any question of doubt.
And whether she was faking, or since Baliol could not afford to let
the bid go unanswered, a lead of a quarter of a length at the mile
had to be challenged:
"Give 'em ten at thirty-six!" Deacon's voice was thick with
gathering effort. "Talk it up, Chick."
From the coxswain's throat issued a machine-gun fusillade of
whiplash words.
"Ten, boys! A rouser now. Ten! Come on. One--two--three--four--oh,
boy! Are we walking! Five--six--are they anchored over there?
Seven--oh, you big brown babies! Eight--Shelburne, good
night--nine--wow!--ten!"
Deacon, driving backward and forward with fiery intensity, feeling
within him the strength of some huge propulsive machine, was getting
his first real thrill of conflict--the thrill not only of actual
competition, but of all it meant to him, personally: his father's
well-being, his own career--everything was merged in a luminous
background of emotion for which that glittering oar he held was the
outlet.
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