Dock was now a boat’s length ahead, and rowing well, but a critical observer could notice that his breathing distressed him.
“Now’s your chance, Jack!” yelled Sam.
But Jack did not need any one to tell him. Another glance over his shoulder at his rival showed him that the time had come to make the spurt. He leaned forward, took a firmer grip on the ash handles, and then gave such an exhibition of rowing as was seldom seen at Washington Hall.
Dock saw his enemy coming, and tried to stave off defeat, but it was no use. He was completely fagged out. Jack went right past him, “as if Dock was standing still,” was the way Sam expressed it.
“Go on! Go on!” screamed Pud. “You’ve got to row, Dock!”
But Dock could not imitate the pace that Jack had set. He tried, but the effort was saddening. He splashed, and the oars all but slipped from his hands. His heart was fluttering like that of a wounded bird.
“You’ve got him! You’ve got him, Jack!” yelled Nat; and, sure enough, Jack Ranger had.
On and on he rowed, increasing every second the open water between his boat and his rival’s, until he shot past the Point, a winner by several lengths.
“That’s the way to do it!”
“I knew he’d win!”