Again the two contestants put forth additional muscle, each to out-distant his opponent, and again the two row-boats leaped forward, still side by side.
As old Jack Broxton, the keeper of the boathouse, said afterward: “It would have taken twelve judges, sitting twelve days, to have told which had the advantage.”
The finishing point was now less than five hundred feet distant, and in a few seconds more the race would be over. The crowd began to stop shouting, almost breathless with pent-up interest. It was surely the prettiest race that had ever been rowed on Otasco Lake.
Splash!
The splash was followed by a splutter, and then a frantic cry for help. A portion of the high float in front of the boathouse had unexpectedly given way, and a short, stocky, reddish-black youth had gone floundering over board.
“Blumpo Brown has gone under.”
“It serves him right for standing away out on the edge of the float.”
“Help! Help!” cried the youth in the water. “Hold on, Harry! Jerry, don’t run into me!”
Alarmed by the cries, the two racers turned around, easing up on their oars as they did so. A single glance showed them that the unfortunate one was directly in their path.
“We must stop!” cried Jerry Upton to his friend.