The bow of the Algonquin passes the stern of the Atalanta! The bow of the Algonquin is on a level with the middle of the Atalanta—three more lengths and the college crew will pass the girls!
“Hurrah for the ’Quins!” The Algonquin ranges up alongside of the Atalanta!
“Through with her!” shouts the captain of the Algonquin.
“Now, girls!” shrieks the captain of the Atalanta.
They near the line, every rower straining desperately, almost madly. Crack goes the oar of the Atalanta’s captain, and up flash its splintered fragments as the stem of her boat springs past the line, eighteen inches at least ahead of the Algonquin.
“Hooraw for the ’Lantas! Hooraw for the girls! Hooraw for the Institoot!” shout a hundred voices.
And there is loud laughing and cheering all round.
The pretty little captain had not studied her classical dictionary for nothing. “I have paid off an old ‘score,’” she said. “Set down my damask roses against the golden apples of Hippomenes!” It was that one second lost in snatching up the bouquet which gave the race to the Atalantas!
