“Bow side, raise your hands!” yelled the cox. “Get her level! Six, throw more weight out-board. That’s better! Now hard, all! We can do it yet!”

Dick, with dismay at heart, had seen the rival boat creep up and pass them, and had listened despairingly to cox’s words:

“Four’s given out!”

Then came the command to Five to throw water over Trevor. Dick, not daring to turn his head for an instant, rowed on desperately, watching Keene’s face for any glimmer of hope that might show thereon.

“No use,” said cox presently in low tones. “He’s a goner! His oar’s trailing. Hello! Easy now!”

Dick saw the light of hope creep into the other’s eyes.

“Mind oars, Five and Seven! Four’s gone over the side!”

And then Dick caught sight of a brown arm gleaming just under the surface, and as he once more took up the stroke, far astern a dripping head emerged, was visible for a moment, and again disappeared under the dancing wavelets. Dick closed his eyes, an awful horror gripping him. Trevor had gone down!

“Careful, Stroke! Take your time!” cautioned Keene.

Dick opened his eyes again and looked up the stream, and hope came to him. One of the launches—it looked like the Terrible—had crossed into the wakes of the shells. If Trevor only came up again! Dick cried within him. And even while his thoughts took the form of a wild, incoherent prayer he saw the launch circle to port and stop. And when she once more swung about the sunlight glowed on a dripping crimson shirt.

“Safe!” cried Dick aloud. Keene nodded and glanced anxiously ahead. Dick with thankful heart tugged stoutly at his oar.

“Where are they?” he gasped.

“Three lengths ahead,” answered Keene. “We’re holding them now.” He raised his voice. “Six, you’ve got to do two men’s work now! Long and steady does it! Bow, you’re late! Steady all!”

The mile buoy was far astern. St. Eustace, rowing well at thirty-six, was, as Keene had said, three lengths in the lead. Trevor’s dead weight and dragging oar had given her her chance. Her crew had seen the trouble in the Hillton shell, and, whatever their emotions were, they were now confident of success, for a three-length lead and eight oars to seven spelled victory for the Blue. The St. Eustace coxswain glanced back over his shoulder and gave a command to the men. The distance had not increased since the Crimson’s Number 4 had gone overboard; that wouldn’t do. The blue-clad eight hit up their stroke. But Keene had been watching and waiting. He would rather have had the struggle come later, in the last half mile; but there was no help for it.

“Now, fellows, ten hard ones and together! Swing out and use your legs! One!... Two!... Three!...”

For the first time in the race the seven boys put every bit of weight and muscle into their strokes. They all knew what the words meant; St. Eustace, somewhere ahead there, was spurting and trying to draw away; if she succeeded it was all up with them. Backs bent and sprang, slides sped from stop to stop, arms and legs straightened and doubled until muscles knotted like ropes beneath tanned skin, blades cleaved the surface like ruddy knives and emerged yards distant to skim and flash over the swirling, racing water for the next grip, breaths came in deep gasps, and the shell flew forward, seeming rather to skim the surface as a darting swallow skims the bosom of a pond, than to cleave the glinting water.

“Seven!... Eight!... Nine!... Ten!” counted the coxswain. “Don’t slacken! Keep her going! We’re gaining on them hand over fist! Hard, all, hard, and use your legs for all that’s in ’em!”

And gaining they were. With seven oars instead of eight, with a boat that listed plainly to bow-side, they were gaining! St. Eustace’s coxswain looked back again; again shrieked to his crew. But this time the response was not evident. They were doing their best. As the beginning of the last half-mile was reached the voice of the bobbing figure in the stern of the St. Eustace shell came to Dick’s ears, and his heart leaped at the sound:

“Hit her up! Hit her up! Hit her up!”

Dick, his face streaming with perspiration, his hands burning on the oar-handle, peeked out of the corners of his eyes to the left for a glimpse of the screaming cox. But not yet. His boat was gaining, swiftly, steadily, but three lengths is a long distance to cut down with your rivals rowing at forty strokes to the minute.

“Lengthen out, Stroke!” called Keene.

The seven rowers steadied down and swung longer. The mile and one half point was already far astern, and Keene could see the faces of the crowds at the finish distinctly. For the first time since the start he met Dick’s eyes and smiled. Then, and as it seemed to Dick, from almost at his side, came a shrill cry:

“Eyes in the boat, Seven! Finish out, Six, finish out!”

It was the St. Eustace coxswain, and at the same moment a speck trembled just within the field of Dick’s vision at the left. The next instant it took shape; he could see the rival boat’s rudder, a portion of the stern, with the steering lines white and gleaming in the sunlight. They were almost even! He was conscious of a new sound, quite distinct from the working of the slides, the rattle of the locks and the rush of oars—a confused murmur that gradually took shape and resolved itself into the cheering of human voices. Surely the finish-line was at hand! He glanced at Keene. That youth, white beneath the tan of his face, with perspiration standing upon his forehead in little glistening beads, was looking straight ahead, with every thought straining toward the goal.

“Now, once more, all!” screamed the St. Eustace coxswain. “Pick her up! You’re not half rowing! Five, steady down! Four, you’re late, you’re late! Row! Row!”

And then the little red-haired youth also crept into Dick’s sight; a pale-faced, despairing figure, crouching there in the stern, bobbing forward and back as though to hurl his boat across the line by his own unaided efforts. One glance at his face brought a flood of joy to Dick! St. Eustace was already beaten—and that white-faced cox knew it! In the next minute a qualm of pity for the struggling opponents came to him, only to be swallowed up in a great wave of triumph as he found himself opposite to the St. Eustace stroke. The three lengths were gone and the two boats were even at last!

The shouting from the shore was louder, and Dick could distinguish the cheers of his schoolmates from the slogan of St. Eustace’s supporters. But how he wished for the end! His breath seemed gone, and every respiration shook his body from head to feet. The perspiration on his face had turned to little drops of ice-water. The river danced and wavered in his sight. His arms were like bars of lead, and his legs from hips to toes seemed no longer connected with the upper portion of him, but were dead, benumbed; he could have put his hand on the very place where they had been cut off. Surely they were at the line now! Surely it was time to get into the lead! He glanced appealingly at Keene.

The latter drew the port rudder-line to him slowly for an inch. Then he turned toward the speeding boat beside him and looked it over, up and down; Two was splashing badly; Four was rolling on his seat like a drunken man; Stroke was plainly worked out; his eyes met those of the red-haired cox; the latter glared across at him vindictively. He turned again and ran his eyes over his own boat: Bow was weakening, but still steady; Six was struggling blindly with half-closed eyes; the balance of the seven were still strong for that period of a two-mile race. He looked ahead at the boats and the bridge above, dark with humanity.

“Two hundred yards!” shrieked the St. Eustace coxswain. “Now pick her up! We’ve got the race if you’ll only take it! Stroke, for Heaven’s sake, man, pick her up! Row!... Row!... Row!”

Two hundred yards! Dick looked at Keene; the latter nodded. Dick rattled his hands away quickly.

“Hit her up all!” cried Keene. “Here’s the finish! Row now, row for Hillton! We’ve got to win!”

“Now then, fellows!” gasped Dick. His blade went under for a hard, desperate stroke, and the next moment seven bodies were straining at the oars in a last, heroic endeavor.

“Well done, all! Keep it up! Keep it up! Once more! Well rowed, fellows! Well rowed! We’re gaining! Use your legs! Well rowed!”

Keene’s voice arose loud and full of encouragement. From across the little path of intervening water came the shrill reiterant appeals of the other coxswain:

“Hard! Hard! We’ve got them! Keep going! Another stroke or two! Hard! Row hard!”

The air was full of the cheers of the excited watchers and the blatant screams of the whistles of surrounding craft. To Dick it was all a confused babel of awful sound. He had closed his eyes, fearing to see the rival boat slipping from sight. But now, gathering courage, he looked. They were in a lane of assembled craft, from which arose streams and clouds of steam; beyond the noisy gathering the river bank was lined with moving throngs; beside him—— His heart sank; the St. Eustace boat was gone! The little bobbing coxswain, the toiling stroke oar, were no longer beside him! He looked despairingly at Keene; something in the latter’s expression sent his glance beyond, and joy rushed back to his heart. The rival boat was a length behind! He closed his eyes again from sheer happiness, and tugged on at the oar. The uproar was deafening, but suddenly, above it all, he heard the coxswain’s voice:

“Let her run!”

When he looked up again, raising his head from his hot, trembling hands, he found to his surprise that his eyes were wet. They were in shadow now, and he glanced up to find the arches of the bridge above them. The noise was less. He blinked through wet lashes at Keene. The latter was grinning happily, foolishly.

“Length and a quarter, about,” he said.

From the bridge overhead and from the throng beyond came cheers for Hillton.