“I’m safe enough,” said Jim, with a laugh. “But I’ll be careful, too. You needn’t worry.”
The hydroplane was down the river, near the starting point, and Jim went immediately to get aboard, the Elihu Yale carrying him down. It was five o’clock, and in an hour the race would begin. So Jim felt there was no time to lose. But, to get a last look, he tore up the course in the hydroplane, startling every one by the swift rush of the tiny boat with the huge engine, which skimmed along, half out of the water, and kicking up a tremendous wash.
Coming back, he slowed down, and looked most carefully for any signs of danger at the third point marked on the map, near Red Top. But there was none. Further down he saw the three motor boats that had belonged to the Marina, and recognized Svenson and Barnes with a chuckle. They, at least, were harmless, he reflected, no matter what they might think of their power to affect the outcome of the race. It was just as well they didn’t know, he decided, that their plan had been defeated.
When he returned to the starting point, the two crews were already there, climbing gingerly out of the coaching launches and into the frail shells that were to carry them in the race. Getting aboard a racing shell from a launch is a delicate affair, but these men were all practiced in the art, and when the referee’s boat finally steamed into position behind the stake boats, the two crews were already there, aligned for the start, with a man in each stake boat, holding the stern of the shell before him.
Jim had to forego much of a sight of the start. He had to edge far over to the eastern shore with his noisy, tempestuous little craft, and the yachts were in his way. But, as he hung there, below the railroad bridge, he heard the sharp crack of the pistol, then a mighty roar from the train on the bridge above him, and he knew that they were off.
Swiftly, keeping well ahead of the oarsmen, but going not more than half speed, even so, to reduce the wash, Jim shot his hydroplane to the mile mark, and looked to see if there was any explanation there of the mark on the map. There was none. He would look at the course here, and he edged over as near as he could. He could not suppress a cry of joy at what he saw. The two racing shells were speeding toward him, and Yale led.
Yale was ahead by nearly a quarter of a length—a great margin in such a race. On the other side of the course he could see one of the Marina’s motor boats, but he did not recognize its passenger. All the same, he laughed.
“He’s on the wrong side of the course,” he reflected. “He’s nearer to Harvard.”
The man in the motor boat stood up to get a better view, and then Jim, who was equipped with a powerful glass, saw him bend over and throw a switch. There was not the slightest effect on the progress of either of the shells, and the man in the motor boat, looking astonished and distressed, stood up again. Jim laughed again, but he could not wait. Again he sped up ahead of the shells, and, at the navy yard, Yale still led by about the same margin as at the mile. It was still a race that either crew might win. They had settled down to a steady pace now, rowing about thirty-four strokes to the minute, and Jim knew, as well as the oarsmen themselves, that the crucial phase of the struggle had not yet arrived.
They were waiting for the last mile, in which, when crews that are so evenly matched as were these two, met, the issue is nearly always decided. Yale had the advantage, for she was ahead, and so could wait for Harvard to challenge her lead. All the blue needed for a victory was to hold her own. Now, when the final test came, it was for Yale to meet each added Harvard stroke, to come back with an extra pound of power for every one that Harvard applied, and so maintain her slender lead.