The sophs along the shore and on the point were wild with delight. They danced and howled, confident of victory at the very outset. The juniors were enthusiastic, but not so demonstrative as the sophomores. The freshmen cheered, but there seemed to be disappointment in the sound.
"Whoop 'er up for 'Umpty-seven!" howled the sophs. "Whoop 'er up! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! This is a cinch!"
"'Umpty-eight is in it; she will catch 'em in a minute," sang the freshmen. "She is crawling on them!"
"All she can do is crawl!" yelled a soph, but his remark was drowned in the wild tumult of noise.
"'Umpty-six is up to tricks!" shouted the juniors. "'Umpty-six, they are bricks! Whoop 'er up! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah!"
The yelling of the freshmen became louder, for their crew was holding its own—was beginning to gain.
"That is the best freshman crew that ever appeared at Saltonstall," declared a spectator. "Every man seems to be a worker. There's no one shirking."
"And look at the stroke oar," urged another. "That fellow is the winner! He is working like a veteran, and he is setting a stroke that is bound to tell before the race is over."
This was true enough. The strong, long stroke of the freshmen kept their boat going steadily at high speed once it was in motion, and they steadily overhauled the juniors, who had fallen away from the sophs. At the stake the freshman crew passed the juniors, and the freshmen witnesses had fits.
But that was not the end of the excitement. The speed of the freshman boat was something wonderful, and it was overhauling the sophs, despite the fact that they were pulling for dear life to hold the lead.