The Eight-Oared Victors: A Story of College Water Sports
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE GREAT RACE
"Are you all ready, boys?" inquired Mr. Lighton.
"My throat's as dry as a limekiln," said Bricktop.
The eight, in their shell, were at the starting point, having gone downin the launch, while the spider-like boat was towed. On either side ofthem were the Boxer and the Fairview eights, with their crews as eagerto get off as were our friends.
"Take a slice of lemon," went on the coach, producing one, and a knifefrom his launch. "Anybody else have one? Hold the pieces in your mouth,"he advised.
Several of the lads accepted bits of the citrous fruit.
"Are your oarlocks all right--and the stretchers?" went on the coach.
Everyone tested his own, and no complaint was forthcoming. Mr. Pierson,who had remained faithful to the last, said something in a low voice toMr. Lighton.
"Yes," assented the head coach, adding: "Don't forget to keep your eyesin the boat, whatever you do. Your coxswain will watch the other craft,and tell you when to spurt. This is important--eyes in the boat and notalking. You've got to row!"
For the other crews, their coaches and advisers were speaking the lastwords to the nervous lads. From time to time those in the Boxer Hall orthe Fairview eight looked over at their rivals. Randall was to take themiddle course, an advantage that had come to them by lot.
Tom and his three chums wanted desperately to talk about the dramaticscene enacted in the boathouse just before they had started, but therewas no chance. They had hurried away, and in the launch, on the tripdown, Mr. Lighton held their attention. Tom had managed to slip upto Ruth, and hand her the brooch just before leaving. That she wassurprised is putting it mildly.
"Oh, Tom! Where on earth did you get it?" she had cried. "I--I could hugyou for this!" and her eyes sparkled.
"We'll postpone the hugging until after the race! Just cheer for ourboat!"
"I will. Oh, Tom, my dear old brooch! Can't you tell me how you got it?"
"Not now--later--I haven't time. See you after the race!" and he had runoff to join his mates.
"How much longer?" asked Frank, as he shifted himself on his slidingseat.
"Not much, I guess," replied Mr. Lighton, looking at his watch."About----"
A shot boomed out from the starter's boat.
"There goes the warning gun," the coach interrupted himself. "A minutemore. Take it easy at the start, boys. It isn't a hundred-yard dash,remember. The hard work will come at the end. Steady all--eyes in theboat--row hard--and--win!"
And, with these final words, Mr. Lighton steamed off in his launch, theother coaches also leaving their crews to themselves.
The race was to be down stream, and, in order to make an even start, thestern of each shell had been made fast to an anchored boat in the middleof the river. At the signal the retaining ropes were to be loosed, andthe race would start. Eager ears waited for the final signal.
"Get ready boys!" called Jerry Jackson, his eyes on his watch, which hehad fastened before him. "You've got about fifteen seconds more."
There were sharp intakings of breath, and the young coxswain, glancingat his crew, noted with satisfaction that the slight tendency towardnervousness, exhibited by some, had disappeared. They were all cool andeager.
Crack! came the report of the starting gun.
On the instant the retaining cables were loosed, and twenty-four oarsseemed to take the water as one. It was a good, clean, even start.
To bring the finish opposite the boathouse, it had been necessary to godown the stream some distance, and there were few spectators gatheredthere.
But such as were there gave forth a hearty cheer, and the yells of thethree colleges were given in turn, for some loyal-hearted lads hadsacrificed their chances to see the finish, that they might cheer thestart.
"Steady, fellows, steady," counseled Jerry, in a low voice, as henoticed a tendency to hurry. "It isn't time to hit up the pace. They'reboth keeping even with us," he added.
Then began a steady grind. A leaning forward of the bodies, with handswell out over the toes, the dipping of the blades of the oars into thewater, and then that tremendous pull of sixteen sturdy arms, shouldersand trunk--the pushing of sixteen muscular legs, the rising off theseats to get all the weight possible on the oar at the point of leveragewhere it would do the most good.
Over and over again was this repeated. Over and over again, with theeyes of seven of the men on the back of the man in front of him timingthe movement, and with the eyes of the stroke on the coxswain, to catchthe slightest signal.
Stroke after stroke--movement after movement, one just like theother--twenty-eight to the minute, Jerry having started them off withthat minimum.
And what Randall was doing, so was Fairview and Boxer Hall, in the samedegree.
The first mile was passed, with the net result that all three shellswere on even terms, albeit one or the other had forged ahead slightly,not because either one had quickened the pace so much consciouslyas that they had done so unconsciously, and there was, of course, adifference in the muscular power at times.
They were half way over the second mile--half the course had been rowed.
Frank Simpson, watching Jerry, saw the little coxswain shoot a quickglance toward the Boxer Hall boat, and then stiffen in his seat.
"Hit it up!" cried Jerry, and he gave the signal for a thirty-per-minutestroke. But, even as he did Frank, risking something by taking his eyesoff the coxswain, looked across the lane of water.
He saw the Fairview boat shoot ahead, while, the next instant theRandall shell, urged onward by the increased stroke, tried to minimizethe advantage gained.