as possible to identify the
two boats without the aid of field-glasses. Side by side they were, or
very nearly, and coming hard. Someone in the Ferry Hill shell was
splashing occasionally; they could see the water dash up into the
sunlight. Then, still rowing about even, they were lost to sight behind
the island and suspense gripped the spectators. The seconds seemed
minutes until, at last, the slim sharp bow of a boat shot into sight
past the lower end of the island. Followed a breathless moment until the
back of the bow oar appeared. Then the group groaned as one man. Bow
wore a white shirt; the Hammond shell was in the lead. Clear of the
island it came and still the rival boat didn't follow.

"Guess our boat's sunk," muttered Chub nervously.

Then another brown nose poked its way past the point and Ferry Hill,
three lengths behind, but rowing hard, flashed into view. The crowd on
the shore vented its relief in a long yell. Maddox, the tiny coxswain,
his megaphone strapped to his mouth, was bending forward and urging his
crew onward. But three lengths is a good deal to make up in the last
quarter-mile of a hard race, especially when one of the crew is plainly
ragged.

"Just look at Hadden!" moaned Thurlow. "He isn't pulling a pound!"

"Thinks he's a blooming geyser, I guess," said Chub disgustedly. "See
him splash, will you? He's just about all in."

But Hammond's stroke was also showing the effects of the work and was
rowing woefully short. Inch by inch the brown shirts crept up on the
white. At first, so slow was the gain, that no one noticed it. Then Chub
let up a whoop of joy.

"We're after 'em!" he cried. "We're gaining on 'em!"

"Yes, but we can't cut down that lead," answered Roy, who had been
freed from inner bounds for the race. "But we certainly are creeping
up!"

"You just bet we are!" shrieked Sid. "Why, we're only two lengths
behind! We--we aren't that much!"

"Length and a half," grunted Thurlow.

The two boats were almost abreast of them now and only a couple of
hundred yards remained. In and out dipped the red blades and the brown,
forward and back bent the straining bodies, back and forth like shuttles
slid the two red-faced, shouting coxswains. The strident tones of Maddox
came up to those on the hillside:

"Hit it up, now! Hit it up! Ten hard ones! One!... Two!... Three!..."

Ten hard ones made a difference. The bow of the Ferry Hill shell slid up
to the stern of the rival boat. On th