Deacon's idea was
that at present his crew was leading because Shelburne was not
unwilling for the present that this should be. How true this was
became evident after the two-mile flags had passed, when the
Shelburne oarsmen began to lay to their strokes with tremendous drive,
the boat creeping foot by foot upon the rival shell until the Baliol
lead had been overcome and Shelburne herself swept to the fore.
Deacon raised the stroke slightly, to thirty-three, but soon dropped
to thirty-two, watching Shelburne carefully lest she make a
runaway then and there. Baliol was half a length astern at the
two-and-a-half mile mark, passing which the Shelburne crew gave
themselves up to a tremendous effort to kill off her rival then and
there.
"Jim! They're doing thirty-six--walking away."
The coxswain's face was white and drawn.
But Deacon continued to pass up a thirty-two stroke while the
Shelburne boat slid gradually away until at the three-mile mark
there was a foot of clear water between its rudder and the prow of
the Baliol shell.
Deacon glanced at the coxswain. A mile to go--one deadly mile.
"Thirty-six," he said. "Shelburne's can't have much more left."
The time had passed for study now. Gritting his teeth, Deacon bent
to his work, his eyes fixed upon the swaying body of the coxswain,
whose sharp staccato voice snapped out the measure; the beat of the
oars in the locks came as one sound.
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