But the cries died away again, for the boys were too eager in watching the straining muscles, the set, resolute faces of their champions, to waste any thought on mere class cries. Ninety-two was pulling magnificently, but ninety-one still continued to decrease the distance. At the end of the next quarter-mile, there was less than a boat-length between them, and both crews were putting forth their best energies, as they came sweeping down towards the goal. The next quarter-mile did its work, and the senior crew were still gaining: a length, three-quarters, half, one-third, one-eighth, and the crews were side by side with scarcely ten inches start for the juniors, as they entered upon their final half-mile, amidst the deafening cries which rose from lake and shore.
All at once, there came a sudden stillness which turned their jubilant shouts into a sort of low moan. The junior shell swerved slightly in her course, and for an instant her speed was checked. The next moment, ninety-one swept proudly past, leading her by two or three feet as she righted and resumed her stroke. The change was so sudden, that even the most distant on-looker realized that some accident had occurred, while the boys in the nearest boats had seen Frank Osborn’s oar snap in two, under the strain he had placed upon it.
“Nine-ty-one! Rah! Nine-ty-one! Rah!” shrieked the triumphant seniors, for they already fancied the prize in their hands. Indeed, it seemed an impossibility that the junior crew, crippled by the loss of an oar, and by having to carry the weight of a useless man, could regain its lost advantage.
No one knew what was to follow.
For one instant, the junior shell lay motionless as Frank Osborn rose, with a hasty word of warning, turned his handsome, scornful face towards the senior crew, in one flash of defiance, and then jumped far over the side of the boat into the cold, blue water below, as the lifted oars fell again and the lightened shell darted onward, amid the loud cheers that rose on every side.
The third quarter post of the last mile flashed past them, and ninety-one was still leading by a half length. Ninety-two had recovered from her shock and, with thirty-four strokes to the minute, was cutting the water like a knife, close in the rear, so close that Captain Howard made a final spurt.
Ninety-two answered with another, gained a little, lost a little, gained again, and for a second the boats stood bow to bow, and the goal was close at hand. Not a cry rose from bank or boat; nothing could be heard but the sound of the oars and the labored breathing of the men, as the boats swept past the stake, not eighteen inches apart. There was a hush, as the crowd drew one long, deep breath; and then came roar after roar, louder and yet more loud,—
“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”
“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”
“O. S. B. O. R. N! Rah! Rah! Rah!”