“Back him up,” yelled the cox; “you’re gaining.”
Peter wondered whether they were; he longed to turn and see for himself.
“Now, then, for all you’re worth. Well rowed, Calvary. Well rowed, indeed. Stick to it.”
Left to itself, his body would have crumbled. His back felt broken. There was a buzzing in his head. Something stronger than will power—a corporate spirit of honor, which the men behind him shared—kept him going.
“Give her ten.”
The cox was counting again. His face was as flaming as his hair with excitement; he was swinging with the oarsmen, as if the jerking of his slight body could make the boat travel faster.
“Going up, Calvary. Half a length.”
Ha! The cox wasn’t lying now. Peter could feel the wash of the eight they were pursuing. They were creeping up slowly. From the bank his name was thundered.
“Barrington. Barrington. Well rowed, Barrington. Row like hell.”
By jingo, he would! He’d show ‘em! There shouldn’t be anything left of him. And Cherry——.