"Right, boys! Up we come. Bully--bully--bully! Half a length now. Do
you hear? Half a length! Give me a quarter, boys. Eh, Godfrey! We've
got it. Now up and at 'em, Baliol. Oh, you hell-dogs!"
As in a dream Deacon saw the Shelburne boat drift into view, saw the
various oarsmen slide past until he and the rival stroke were rowing
practically abeam.
"That's for you, Dad," he muttered--and smiled.
He saw the men swing with quickened rhythm, saw the spray fly like
bullets from the Shelburne blades.
"Look out." There was a note of anguish in Seagraves' voice.
"Shelburne's spurting again."
A malediction trembled upon Deacon's lips. So here was the joker
held in reserve by the rival crew! Had Baliol anything left? Had he
anything left? Grave doubt was mounting in his soul. Away swept the
Shelburne boat inches at a stroke until the difference in their
positions was nearly a length. Three miles and a half! Not an
observer but believed that this gruelling contest had been worked out.
Seagraves, his eyes running tears, believed it as he swung backward
and forward exhorting his men. Half a mile more! The crews were now
rowing between the anchored lines of yachts and excursion-craft. The
finish boat was in sight.
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