True enough, as they approached the one-mile stake, the seniors quickened their stroke to thirty to the minute, and little by little their bow crept forward, lessening their distance by half a length, just as they reached the second stake.
“Nine-ty-one! Rah! Nine-ty-one! Rah!” answered the friends of the seniors, in an encouraging shout, while the loyal adherents of ninety-two sent back the cry,—
“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”
The first mile stake once passed, the crews settled to work in earnest. Ninety-two still kept the lead, with a long, steady stroke which not even the occasional spurts of ninety-one could pass. Three lengths, at the end of the next half-mile, showed that the juniors were more than holding their own, and made their friends exultant over the prospect of an easy victory. But the seniors and their friends, whose eyes were fixed on Captain Howard’s face, felt that the real test had not yet come; and they were content to wait, for they believed that the juniors were using their most finished stroke, while ninety-one still held herself in reserve. Even as they watched, the change came, a change too slight to catch the attention of any but a trained eye; and as ninety-one entered on the last half of her second mile, she slowly gained upon her adversary. Line by line, inch by inch she approached the leading shell, not a spurt this time, but a steady gain, slow but resistless, and the crews swept past the second mile stake with but two and a quarter lengths between.
“Hold your ground, blue!”
“Hurrah for red and ninety-one!”
“Ninety-one gains!”
“She can’t hold out!”
“Ninety-two’s stroke’ll win yet!”
“Ninety-one! Rah!”