"Preston hasn't let itself out yet, and we're next door to panting already," Tom Reade told himself, with a sinking heart. "We were fools to enter as a school crew without more practice!"
At this time Dick Prescott was the only one in the war canoe who serenely ignored all doubts. Of course he couldn't be sure that he would win. In fact, all the chances appeared against him. But the absurd habit, as it seemed to others, of feeling that Gridley could not be beaten, was strong upon him.
More than half way to the upper buoy Preston High School led by more than two lengths.
"Get on, Gridley! Get on! Do something!" came the distant yet distinct yells from shore. Many spectators, in carriages, or on bicycles, were following the rival crews.
"Prescott, what ails you?" came a wailing cry from shore.
There were other discouraging calls, too. Had Dick been less strong in his faith in Dick & Co. he might have gone to pieces under the nagging.
Bob Hartwell, glancing smilingly back over one shoulder, saw the
Gridley boys working.
"We've got 'em stung, fellows," called the Preston High School big chief to his crew. "Take it easy, but don't let 'em gain anything. We won't try to increase the lead until we're on the last half of the home stretch."
A hundred and fifty yards from the upper buoy Dick passed the word:
"Now, hump a bit. We want to worry 'em as we get to the buoy.
Make it hot for Preston! One, two, three, four!"