When the two and a half mile flag was passed it was seen that Yale had begun to creep up. Still she was not dangerous. Her friends were encouraged, however, and the sound all Yale men love—the Yale yell—could be heard above the roaring of the crowd.
That sound seemed to put fresh life and heart into the Yale crew. At the beginning of the last mile Harvard was scarcely two lengths in advance.
It was a wonderful race. The excitement was at the highest pitch.
The Harvard crew, although it had started out so beautifully, had not the stamina to endure the strain. No. 3 was pulling out of the boat, while No. 5 showed signs of distress.
Yale begins to spurt. Her men are working like machinery. No one could dream that one of them
was suffering the tortures of a being on the rack, and still such was the truth.
A hundred times it seemed to Frank Merriwell that he must give out; a hundred times he set his teeth and vowed that he would die before he would weaken. No one could know the almost superhuman courage and fortitude which enabled him to keep up and continue his work in the proper manner. Those who watched the crew closely fancied that he worked with the utmost ease, for all of the long pull.
Collingwood had forgotten Merriwell's felon. He was reckoning on the final spurt to bring "Old Eli" to the front. Harder and harder he worked his men.
Now the uproar along the river was deafening. The prow of the Yale boat was at Harvard's stern—and then Yale began to creep along by Harvard's side.
No. 7 of the Harvard crew reeled on his seat. Then he braced up and went at it again. But he was not in stroke. The faces of both crews were set. They were like gladiators battling for their very lives.