“Oh, so you are really going to race?” called Andy, somewhat surprised by the sudden advantage secured by his brother. “Well, two can play at that game,” and he, also, hit up the pace until in front of both boats there was a little smother of foam, while the green, salty water swirled and sparkled around the blades of the broad ashen oars, for the boys did not use the spoon style.
For perhaps two minutes both rowed on in silence, and it was so quiet, not a breath of wind stirring, that each one could hear the labored breathing of the other. The pace was beginning to tell, for, though Frank was not over-anxious to make record time to the dock, he was not going to let his brother beat him, if he could prevent it.
“I shouldn’t wonder but what there’d be a storm,” spoke Andy again, after a pause. He couldn’t keep quiet for very long at a time.
“Um,” was all the reply Frank made.
“What’s the matter; lost your tongue overboard?” questioned Andy with a chuckle.
Frank did not reply.
“I’m going to pass you,” called the younger brother a moment later when, by extreme exertion, he had regained the place he had held, with the bow of his craft in line with Frank’s. Then Andy fairly outdid himself, for, though Frank was rowing hard, his brother suddenly shot ahead.
“It’s about time you did some rowing,” was Frank’s quiet remark, and then he showed that he still had some power in reserve, for he caught up to his brother, and held his place there with seeming ease, though Andy did not let up in the furious pace he had set.
“Oh, what’s the use of killing yourself?” at length the younger lad fairly panted. “It’s—it’s farther than I thought.”
He began losing distance, but Frank, too, had no liking for the fast clip, so he, likewise, rowed slower until the two boats were on even terms, bobbing over the long ground swell that seemed to be getting heavier rapidly.