Following the swimming races came rowing and sailing matches and the fourth class pair of sculls, and four and eight barges, had the temerity to offer a challenge, open to all.

They promptly found acceptances, in other classes, and it was found that Mark Merrill was one of a pair of scullers, and held a seat in the four and eight-oared barges, while he was also matched for an open to all in single sculls.

“No need of betting against Merrill in single sculls, for he is a fisherman, you know, and rowed in the surf from boyhood,” said Scott Clemmons with a sneer.

“You intend to bet on him, then, Clemmons?” asked Byrd Bascomb.

“Of course I do, for I know what the fellow could do in a swimming match, and he is just as good with oars.”

The day of the races for the championship came round and the eight-oared barge was ahead, but crowded by its nearest rival, when Mark’s oar snapped, and they were passed.

But he seized the oar of one of the men who had weakened, and they came in second amid tremendous cheers.

All had to admit, but for the breaking of Merrill’s oar, his boat would have led to the finish.

In the double-scull race Bemis Perry, his roommate, was his partner, and, coached by Mark, the youth had become a strong and skillful oarsman.

They dropped astern at the start, but pushed their three rivals hard apace, which began to tell in the end, and nearing the finish they slipped by, first one, then the other, and at last left the first-class men astern, winning by a strong and steady stroke.

The following day the race came off for single sculls, and it was a foregone conclusion that Mark Merrill would win.

When the word was given to go, Mark seemed not to hear it, but the others started off like arrows.

Bemis Perry, Nazro, Dillingham, Clemmons, Ferd Randall, and half a dozen more were in the race, and they all started in a bunch, all except Mark.

At last he started, crossing the line just in the nick of time to prevent being ruled out, and then seeming as though willing to give up as the others had such a long lead.

“I’ll bet my hat he’s jockeying,” cried Bascomb, and as he spoke Mark’s oars went down with a mighty sweep, and his boat clove the waters like a knife.

Randall was soon picked up, then came Neil Carroll, Harbor Driggs, Frank Latrobe, and the rear contingent were dropped astern.

A second squadron was just ahead, and in it were Nazro, Dillingham, Swamsey, and Denton.

They were at the turning-stake and Mark Merrill swept out beyond them, giving them ample room.

But when they settled for the pull home it was seen that he had them astern, and he was rowing well, with long, tremendous strokes that did not seem to distress him. Ahead of him were three scullers, McNulty, the champion of the year before, with Bemis Perry and Scott Clemmons leading him by a length.

Clemmons was gradually drawing ahead of Perry, but so slowly as to be almost imperceptible, and all had their eyes upon the tremendous strokes of the racer coming on astern.

The excitement now grew intense ashore as Mark was seen to draw up even with McNulty.

“He can never catch the leaders,” yelled Bascomb.

“That boy is a wizard with the oars,” said a professor.

Then all saw Mark deliberately rest his oars a second, raise his skull-cap to McNulty, and then shoot on toward the leaders.

Such a yell as went up ashore made the buildings ring.

Ahead Perry and Clemmons were struggling manfully, the latter bending every energy to defeat Merrill, whom he now had come to fear, for that raising of his cap to McNulty showed that he had confidence in his power to win.

On they swept, Clemmons leading Perry half a length and Merrill three lengths behind the latter.

The finish was yet a third of a mile away, and the pace was terrific, for all realized that Mark Merrill had taken tremendous chances for losing by his play at the start, for every one now knew that he had been purposely playing.

Nearer came the goal, and Perry still held his place on Clemmons’ quarter.

But Mark had lessened the daylight between them until he was but a length astern.

“He is dropping back!” yelled Bascomb.

But no, he was only drawing off to one side to get good passing room, for he did not like to pass too near Scott Clemmons. He did lose half a length by this, but he had a clear reach ahead of him.

Ashore the excitement was dreadful, the suspense painful.

“Can mortal man do it?” was the question on every lip.

The rear scullers had stopped rowing, and were watching the race.

There were three prizes, and the three men ahead, Clemmons, Perry and Merrill, in the order named, could never be overhauled.

The others were not in the race, even McNulty knew this.

The fourth class was winning the day, no matter who held first at the finish of that superb trio.

With a grand spurt Mark Merrill leveled himself with Perry, and a yell burst from every lip, as that same performance was repeated—Mark raised his cap to Perry.

Only a couple of hundred yards away was the finish. Could he win it?

Clemmons was pulling forty strokes to the minute, long, telling strokes they were, too, and the goal was near.

Merrill was upon his quarter, then abreast, then his sharp prow shot ahead amid the wildest enthusiasm, while suddenly as though to show he knew his strength and speed far better than all others he got daylight between his rival so well that he sped like an arrow across his bows, and with a quick turn again fairly threw himself over the line, while the fact that Bemis Perry had suddenly forged a quarter of a length ahead of Clemmons and came in second, was hardly noticed in the pandemonium that followed the triumph of the “water wizard.”