“It’s Pornell’s race!”
“Hurrah for Roy Bock and his crew!”
“This is a great day for Pornell Academy!”
“Go home, Putnam, and learn how to row!”
The cries continued as the Pornell boat continued to forge ahead until it was nearly two lengths in advance. But the pace was beginning to tell on the rowers, and the fellow named Grimes was breathing with difficulty.
“Keep it up—don’t give in yet!” cried Roy Bock. “We’re almost done! Pull!”
Grimes tried to do so, and so did another fellow named Passmore. But they were “all in,” as it is called, and could not add an ounce of strength to their stroke. Roy Bock was also almost gone, and for the instant the stroke was broken.
It was a chance that Dale had been looking for, and he was quick to take advantage of it. He called on his crew in a sharp way that caused them to brace up, and the stroke was increased wonderfully. Up crawled the Putnam Hall crew, until the other boat was but a quarter of a length ahead.
“Now, boys, now, and the race is ours!” sang out Dale, and they gave a spurt. The line was about a hundred and fifty feet away, and [over this they shot—the winners] by a length and an eighth!