In absolute precision the Gridley High School boys moved at their work, their swift, deft, strong strokes sending the birch bark craft darting over the water in a fashion that brought a cheer from shore.
"Deep breathing just as soon as we're at rest at the line," Dick warned his chums. "At the start try to make the first breath carry you for four strokes!"
In a short time the referee had the canoes with their noses at the line, and at an interval from each other satisfactory to him.
"Thirty seconds to the start!" called the time-keeper. "Twenty seconds!"
In the Gridley canoe each boy sat bent slightly forward, his paddle raised at the proper position.
"Ten seconds!" called the starter. Then——-
Bang! Away shot the canoes. Over all other sounds could be heard
Dick's low-toned:
"One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!"
The Preston boys heard him, and Dick noted, with amusement, that they unconsciously adapted their own stroke to his count.
"Cut that numeral business," grunted Bob Hartwell, across the water. "You're queering our fellows."