It was hammer and tongs then to the finish, but Yale had the pace of the Harvard boat, and, when the first gun boomed out, it was as Yale crossed the line, winner of a desperate race by a margin of less than two seconds—half a length or less. It wasn’t much, but it was a victory. First blood for Yale, and a good omen for the bigger race later on.
“Good work!” said Merriwell, as the coaching launch swept up alongside the tired oarsmen, who were splashing each other and looking lovingly at the shirts their friendly rivals had tossed them. “That’s the idea—show the varsity how to win.”
But there was little time for talk. The four-oared crews got their breath, then paddled over to the eastern shore and swung up together, to reach the finish of the course and see how the freshmen fared. And the freshmen eight-oared crews, ready for their own two-mile race, were awaiting the referee’s gun. It came, and the race began.
But this wasn’t a race very long. Harvard started well enough, and was always game, but the Yale freshmen were a remarkable crew, and they won as they pleased, with ten lengths of open water behind them and before the Harvard crew at the finish.
Yale’s enthusiasm was unlimited. Here was the best of starts. Now every Yale rooter on the trains was shouting for a clean sweep of the river, for the winning of all three races. It had been done before—why shouldn’t Dick Merriwell’s crews repeat the feat?
Harvard was grimly determined. True, two races were gone beyond recall, but the biggest one of all remained. If the big varsity crew could win, the defeats in the minor races would be forgotten. Yale was welcome to them—if only Harvard’s crimson waved triumphant at the end of the greatest contest of all.
Jim Phillips was very thoughtful as the launch went back to quarters after the freshman race. The varsity oarsmen, who were elated by the result of the first two races, were all ready now for their own test. They were superbly confident of their ability to finish the task the others had begun so well. But Jim himself was consumed by anxiety. He could not believe that that map had had no sinister meaning. And Barrows had impressed him as a man not likely, if care could prevent accident, to leave anything to chance.
Finally he told Dick Merriwell of the map.
“I’ve decided what to do,” he said. “Brady’s people have a hydroplane here that can make thirty-five miles an hour easily, and I know enough about that sort of boat to run it. It’s impossible to tell which of those marked places is the danger spot, but I should say the one nearest the finish. They won’t know until late in the race that their magnet coil won’t work. Now, if I have that hydroplane, I can run right along behind or level with the race, and make sure that there’s no mischief afoot. How does that strike you?”
“It’s a good plan,” said Dick. “But be careful. Don’t take any more wild chances. Remember that I’d rather lose this race and every other that I’m ever going to be interested in, than see anything happen to you.”