at distance, be able to pull
up the length which now divides us and our rivals? There is a chance
yet! The leading boat is not going as fast as it was a minute ago. I
can tell that by the eddies from their oars which sweep past.

"How much?" inquired Blades again, as he swung forward.

"One!" I replied.

I could see by the gleam in his eyes that he had hope still of making
that one length nothing before the winning-post was reached.

That shout from the bank means something, surely!

"Well rowed indeed, Parkhurst!"

"They're overlapped!"

Yes, those who could see it were watching the little pink flag at the
prow of our boat creeping, inch by inch, up the stern of our rivals'.
The eddies from their oars came past nearer now, and the "thud" of their
outriggers sounded closer.

Yes, we are gaining without doubt; but shall we overtake them in time to
avoid defeat? I can see a mass of people ahead on the banks, and know
that they are gathered opposite the winning-post. It can't be a quarter
of a mile off now!

Again that shout from the bank. Ah, yes, our bow oar is level with
their stroke. "Now you have it!" shout our fellows.

Blades turns his head for half a second, and cries to his men as he
quickens up to his final spurt.

What a shout then rent the air! Our boat no longer crawled up beside
the Old Boys, but began to fly. On, on! Their coxswain seems to be
gliding backwards towards me. In vain they attempt to answer our spurt;
they have not the rowing left in them to do it. Nothing can stop us!
In another moment we are abreast, and almost instantly there come such
cheers after cheers from the bank that even the dash of the oars was
drowned in it.

"Parkhurst's ahead!"

"Ah, well rowed!"

"Now, Old Boys!"

"It's a win!"

On, on! What sensation so glorious, so madly exciting, as that of one
of the crew of a winning boat within twenty yards of the goal? I am
tempted to shout, to wave my hat, to do something ridiculous, but I set
my teeth and sit still, holding my breath. Four strokes more will do
it. One! I am level with the stroke of the Old Boys' boat. Two! Our
fellows pull as if they had another half-mile to go still. Three! The
judge at the winning-post is lifting his hand and cocking his pistol.
Four! Crack goes the signal! and as our men cease rowing, and the boat
shoots forward with the impetus of that last terrific stroke, amid the
cheers and shouts of the assembled crowd