But Jones was too brimful of nervousness to contain himself. He pushed forward to where a man had a pair of marine glasses, through which he was surveying the river far up at the bend. When the first boat poked its long narrow prow around this bend he would be able to discern to which school it belonged, and could give the information to others.
The shouting seemed to be traveling rapidly down the river. It had almost reached the bend now, and in a few more seconds they would know what it all meant.
Frank was not disturbed. He had easily discovered by now that the Columbia yell far outranked all other noise, and from that could judge what it portended. The boat propelled by the home four must be leading. Perhaps it was a close race, and that last half mile on the home stretch might produce as pretty a race as had ever been rowed on the famous Harrapin river.
He could not help being deeply interested himself, no matter how much he tried to master his emotions and remain cool.
Next to being in the winning boat himself, this seeing his schoolmates coming in ahead of all competitors was the real thing. The spirit of the school forged to the front, and when it was seen by every one that Columbia was really ahead, with her crew pulling like clockwork, the sounds that arose might have made one believe himself near some lunatic asylum, for they beggared description.
Down came the three shells, speeding with the current until they appeared to be next to flying over the water. Bellport seemed distressed, and was losing way; but Clifford hung on to the stern of Columbia with a determination to do or die, nor could the leaders even by a wonderful spurt shake them off.
DOWN CAME THE THREE SHELLS.