“No, not yet!” whispered Frank, as he bent forward in his place at stroke until he was nearer the lad at the tiller ropes. “Feel ’em out first, Jerry. Don’t go breaking our hearts in the first mile. We’ve got a good ways to go in this little race, and the spurt will come toward the end, if I’m not mistaken. It would be pie for them if we rowed ourselves out, and then they would simply spurt past us. They’re older hands at it than we are.”
“I guess you’re right, Frank,” admitted Jerry, who took the advice in good part.
He had not been acting as coxswain long enough to feel resentment that his orders were not obeyed. He realized, also, that the lads at the oars had all the work to do, and, as it was not a regular race, when the coxswain had to be the general, it was no more than fair that the ones who had to do the labor should have a voice in saying how it was to be done.
“Wait until we—get into a—good swing. Let us pull at—this stroke—for a while,” went on Frank, speaking rather jerkily, and whispering every time his head came close to Jerry, in leaning forward to make his stroke. “Watch ’em, and when—you think we can spurt—then give—the word.”
“All right,” assented the coxswain. He looked over at the Fairview shell, and noted that Roger Barns, the coxswain, was closely regarding the Randall eight.
“They’re sizing us up,” thought Jerry. “Well, we may not be such a muchness now, but by Hector! When we start in regular training this Fall, if we don’t make ’em sit up and notice which side their tea is buttered on I’m a Dutchman, and that’s no wallflower at a dance, either!” and Jerry shut his lips firmly and felt delicately of the tiller lines, shifting the rudder slightly to learn that the shell was in good control. She responded to the lightest touch, being indeed a well-built craft and as light as a feather, though with sufficient stiffness—that quality always hard to get in a frail shell.
The two racing machines were now moving swiftly along, being about on even terms. Now and then, seemingly in response to a signal from their coxswain, the Fairview lads would hang back a bit, allowing the Randall shell to creep up. Evidently it was a little trick, played with the hope that Randall would spurt, and give her rivals an opportunity to sweep ahead of them in splendid style, thus winning the impromptu race. If such was the intention Randall did not bite at the bait, for Frank, in a few whispered words to Jerry, advised him not to signal for a quicker stroke.
“Say, is this a race or a crocheting party?” grumbled big Dutch Housenlager. “Vat you t’ink, Kindlings.”
“I’m thinking that—I’m—getting winded,” panted Dan Woodhouse.