“He is dropping back!” yelled Bascomb.
But no, he was only drawing off to one side to get good passing room, for he did not like to pass too near Scott Clemmons. He did lose half a length by this, but he had a clear reach ahead of him.
Ashore the excitement was dreadful, the suspense painful.
“Can mortal man do it?” was the question on every lip.
The rear scullers had stopped rowing, and were watching the race.
There were three prizes, and the three men ahead, Clemmons, Perry and Merrill, in the order named, could never be overhauled.
The others were not in the race, even McNulty knew this.
The fourth class was winning the day, no matter who held first at the finish of that superb trio.
With a grand spurt Mark Merrill leveled himself with Perry, and a yell burst from every lip, as that same performance was repeated—Mark raised his cap to Perry.
Only a couple of hundred yards away was the finish. Could he win it?