“Varsity and freshmen out!” called Dick, and the sixteen oarsmen, lifting their shells shoulder high, soon had them in the water, and took their places in the frail skiffs that were to carry them in the races.
“They’re a good-looking lot, Merriwell,” said Thompson, as he inspected the two crews critically.
They pulled slowly out from the float into deep water, obeying the orders of the coxswains, and then, at a word from Dick, swung out, with a long, powerful stroke, across the river, to the starting point on the opposite shore, close to the bank.
“Got a watch?” Merriwell asked Thompson, and lent him his own stop watch when he found that the Harvard man was not provided with a split-second timepiece.
“I’m going to give them a brush for a couple of miles,” said Dick, “and I want some sort of a rough idea of their time. If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like to have you keep tabs on them——”
“Glad of the chance,” said Thompson, grinning. “This isn’t much like old times. I remember when I was a freshman we had the most complicated system of spies for getting times of your rows you ever saw. Used to have men stationed all along the bank, where we thought they couldn’t see us.”
Dick laughed, and then watched the two shells as they lined up.
“Ready, varsity?” he called. “Ready, freshmen? Ready all? Go!”
Sixteen oars met the water all at once, as it seemed, and in a moment the two shells were off. For a mile it was a pretty race. Then weight and experience told. The varsity drew steadily away from the freshman crew, and at the two-mile mark the big crew was a good two lengths in the lead.
“Ten forty-nine,” said Thompson, snapping his watch. “That’s good enough to beat us, Merriwell, and I don’t mind saying so. Murchison didn’t go above thirty-four to the minute at all, except for half a minute at the end.”