said. "Shelburne's can't have much more left."

The time had passed for study now. Gritting his teeth, Deacon bent
to his work, his eyes fixed upon the swaying body of the coxswain,
whose sharp staccato voice snapped out the measure; the beat of the
oars in the locks came as one sound.

"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.

And now Deacon, exalted by something nameless, uttered a cry and
began to give to Baliol more than he really had. Surely, steadily,
he raised his stroke while his comrades, like the lion-hearts they
were, took it up and put the sanction of common authority upon it.
Thirty-four! Thirty-six! Not the spurt of physical prowess, but of
indomitable mentality.

"Up we come!" Seagraves' voice was shrill like a bugle. He could see
expressions of stark fear in the faces of the rival oarsmen. They
had given all they had to give, had given enough to win almost any
race. But here in this race they had not given enough.

On came the Baliol shell with terrific impulse. Quarter of a mile;
Shelburne passed, her prow hanging doggedly on to the Baliol rudder.

Victory! Deacon's head became clear. None of the physical torture he
had felt in the past mile was now registered upon his consciousness.
No thought but that of impending victory!