In an eight-oared shell, such as the varsity races of to-day are rowed in, each man handles a single oar, and four are on one side of the boat, four on the other. Stroke sets the pace for the men who swing on the same side of the boat directly, and, in a way, for all eight rowers. But the men on the other side must take the beat from number seven, who must, therefore, be able to follow stroke with the utmost exactness, for the speed of a shell depends altogether upon the unison of the oarsmen. They must row in time, or the boat will drag and check badly.
Going at racing speed, a boat should cover its own length, of about sixty feet, in something like four seconds. A single break may make that time five seconds more, so it is easy to see how important it is for every man to row in time.
There was some hesitation, as Dick Merriwell could see, in the answer of Benton and Hargreaves to his question about the condition of the crew. Each seemed to hang back to let the other answer, and Dick was immediately much concerned.
“Is there anything wrong?” he said. “If so, you should have let me know.”
“Nothing exactly wrong,” said Benton finally. “But we’re a little puzzled, and there’s no use denying that. We had a time trial last Wednesday, as you know. We took them downstream, from quarters here to the railroad bridge, using the flags for the course. Four of us caught them in twenty minutes twenty-one seconds, which was remarkable time. The tide was good, of course, but it was very hot. I never saw a Yale crew work better. The best we’ve heard of Harvard, under conditions that, if anything were better, was twenty-one minutes flat for the course—also downstream. Murchison was right up to top form—the whole crew worked like a machine. But here’s the sequel.”
Hargreaves broke in excitedly.
“Yes,” he said, “here’s the sequel! The Harvard people had a day off this afternoon, to get returns on the game. I thought, and Benton agreed with me, that it was better not to let the fellows get their minds on the baseball game too much. So we took the freshmen and the varsity out and gave them a two-mile brush, at full speed, racing start and all racing conditions, to the navy yard—the same course the freshmen will row next week. And—the freshmen finished three lengths ahead.”
“What?” exclaimed the universal coach, in amazement. “What was the time?”
“Ten minutes fifty-nine seconds,” said Benton gloomily. “And the varsity made the two miles in their trial row last Wednesday in ten thirty-three. Now, how are you going to account for that?”
“That time’s all right for the freshmen,” said Dick slowly. “They’ll take a lot of beating if they do as well as that against Harvard. But I don’t understand the varsity. Of course, it’s not a two-mile crew—but they ought to have done as well as in their time trial. How were the water conditions?”