The long blades flashed in and out of the water quicker and cleaner, cutting down Harvard's lead, until just as they swept by the Frolic that discouraging discrepancy was closed and the two shell's noses were even. Yale had made a gallant spurt.
"Up anchor and after them," ordered Captain Boynton and the crew sprang to obey orders, eagerness to see the finish lending phenomenal speed to their fingers, and the Frolic was soon in hot pursuit of the shells, Yale now pulling a trifle ahead of her adversary in that last fateful mile.
How those eight bare backs swayed back and forth. Harvard's beautiful, long, clean sweep was doing pretty work, but that Siren Yell seemed to have supplied the "ginger" necessary to spur on the Yale men.
"Give 'em another! Give 'em another!" shouted Captain Stewart, as the Frolic came abreast of the Yale crew, and fairly shaking Captain Harold in his excitement.
"Avast there! Give way, man! Do you want to yank me out of my coat?" he laughed.
"I'll yank somebody out of something if those Yale boys don't pull a length ahead of those Johnny Harvards," sputtered Neil Stewart.
"Whoop it up fellows—AND friends. The four N Yell for old Yale," bawled Shortie in order to make himself heard above the din and pandemonium of screaming sirens and the yelling, and in spite of it all the Yale crew heard
"N—n—n—n!
A—a—a—a!
V—v—v—v!
Y—y—y—y!
Yale! Yale! Yale!"
and laid their strength to their sweeps. Chests were heaving and breath coming in panting gasps, but the coxswain of the Yale crew was abreast of number three in the Harvard shell, and inch by inch the space was lengthening in favor of the blue-tipped blades.
"Yale! Yale! Yale!"