“Pull there, Westcott’s!” yelled Hutchins, as if he could reach the distant crew with his voice. “Hit it up, stroke!”
Talbot said nothing, but his eyes were glued on the approaching boats, now hardly twenty strokes from the finish line. His heart was heavy with disappointment. He had expected much from this second crew. When doubts as to his own assailed him, his faith in Mac’s crew had never wavered. He had expected them to win their trial heat with ease, to make up in a measure for the chagrin the school would feel if the first only gained second place.
“Gee! see ’em hit up the stroke!” cried Hutchins, suddenly gripping Pete’s arm and dancing in the water that flooded the float. “Look at ’em gain! That’s the way, Westcott’s! They can’t meet it! Look at their heads roll round! They’re all in. You’ve got ’em, Westcott’s. Hold ’em! Hold ’em!”
At this point Hutchins broke off his wild ejaculations to splash across to a cluster of old Westcottites standing near the boat-house and lead a cheer. While the cheer rang out, Mike was counting the last half-dozen strokes, and urging his men to row them hard. His boat cut the finish line half a length ahead of Trowbridge, whose exhausted oarsmen fell forward upon their oars as the coxswain bade them cease rowing. The spurt had caught them with no surplus of strength to draw upon.
After this there was no need of artificial diversion in the boat-house. The fellows on the second vowed that they had lots of strength left, that they were holding back so as to keep Trowbridge from pushing too hard, and that they could have kept the lead from the beginning if they had wanted to—all of which was believed because it was pleasant to believe. The exchange of questions and answers, explanations and congratulations absorbed every one’s attention until the toots of the launch again called the crowd forth to see the finish of the last heat of the seconds.
And now the moment was come which Talbot’s crew had been both longing for and dreading. As he helped carry the boat out, Roger was conscious of a shrinking—a nervous, unsettling fear that his strength and skill might not be equal to the test before him. He glanced at Pete to see if he too felt the depressing influence, but the captain’s face showed only a deeper line of determination about the mouth, and his voice as he gave the necessary orders sounded calm and reassuring. The unnatural tension was at its height as Roger sat with arms outstretched for the catch, waiting for the coxswain’s word. It clung to him still during the first strokes, as the boat got under way from the float. Then gradually the familiar movement absorbed his attention, and the grip on his heart loosened. The harmony of the swaying bodies, the monotonous creak of the slides on their rollers, the wash of the water against the sides, the “feel” of the boat beneath him as it drove steadily forward—all contributed to wake in him the old confidence and exhilaration.
As the crew passed under the bridge on their way to the starting line, the cheers from admirers above descended in a loud blare, but by this time he was beyond the need of such encouragement. He knew that the boat was going well, he exulted in the conviction that he had his form and his strength, and could row that day as well as any other.
The crews got off well. The dozen quick starting strokes put the nose of the Westcott boat six feet ahead of Newbury. Brookfield High and Boston Latin were still farther behind. Roger was a little dilatory in obeying the starting signal, and as a result, in his efforts to follow his leader, he rowed his first strokes too much with his arms; but by the time Pete lengthened out, he was in form again, his legs thrusting strongly against the stretcher, his blade catching the water sharply and hard, his pull straight through to the end of the long stroke. He bore in mind the last warning he had received from the coach, and gave particular attention to getting his hands away quickly, keeping in the middle of the boat and avoiding the abrupt return technically known as “rushing the slide.” He saw nothing but the back of the man in front of him, heard nothing but the exhortations of the coxswain, until four blasts of the whistle close at hand assured him that the Westcott boat was leading. Soon after this he began to feel tired, and wondered vaguely if he were not pulling too hard, but with the second toot of the whistle this sense of weariness yielded somewhat, and a glimpse caught over Eaton’s shoulder of Brookfield High, lengths behind, gave him courage.
“Halfway!” called Rust. “Keep it up now, Newbury’s gaining. Watch your form, Bow!”
From the launch came the signal that Westcott had lost the lead to Newbury. Roger wondered if he were really rowing badly or was just being warned to prevent a slump. He wondered also whether Talbot would spurt or let Newbury go ahead. And while he wondered, toiling at his oar and watching his slide, he felt the stroke quicken and rallied to meet it.