But when they came to rounding the stake it was easier to guess at the amount of space which had been gained. Something like half the distance—four lengths as nearly as could be estimated—had been made up in rowing the first three-quarters of a mile. Could the Algonquins do a little better than this in the second half of the race-course they would be sure of winning.
The boats had turned the stake and were coming in rapidly. Every minute the University boat was getting nearer the other.
“Go it, ’Quins!” shouted the students.
“Pull away, ’Lantas!” screamed the girls, who were crowding down to the edge of the water.
Nearer, nearer—the rear boat is pressing the other more and more closely—a few more strokes and they will be even. It looks desperate for the Atalantas. The bow oar of the Algonquin turns his head. He sees the little coxswain leaning forward at every stroke, as if her trivial weight were of such mighty consequence—but a few ounces might turn the scale of victory. As he turned he got a glimpse of the stroke oar of the Atalanta; what a flash of loveliness it was! Her face was like the reddest of June roses, with the heat and the strain and passion of expected triumph.
The upper button of her close-fitting flannel suit had strangled her as her bosom heaved with exertion, and it had given way before the fierce clutch she made at it. The bow oar was a staunch and steady rower, but he was human. The blade of his oar lingered in the water; a little more and he would have caught a crab, and perhaps lost the race by his momentary bewilderment.
The boat, which seemed as if it had all the life and nervousness of a three-year-old colt, felt the slight check, and all her men bent more vigorously to their oars. The Atalanta saw the movement, and made a spurt to keep their lead and gain upon it if they could. It was no use. The strong arms of the young men were too much for the young maidens; only a few lengths remained to be rowed, and they would certainly pass the Atalanta before she could reach the line.
The little coxswain saw that it was all up with the girls’ crew if she could not save them by some strategic device. As she stooped she lifted the handkerchief at her feet and took from it a flaming bouquet. “Look!” she cried, and flung it just forward of the track of the Algonquin.
The captain of the University boat turned his head, and there was the lovely vision which had, a moment before, bewitched him. The owner of all that loveliness must, he thought, have flung the bouquet. It was a challenge; how could he be such a coward as to decline accepting it? He was sure he could win the race now, and he would sweep past the line in triumph with the great bunch of flowers at the stern of his boat, proud as Van Tromp in the British Channel with the broom at his masthead.
He turned the boat’s head a little by backing water, and came up with the floating flowers, near enough to reach them. He stooped and snatched them up, with the loss perhaps of a second, no more. He felt sure of his victory.