“Silence up there!” exclaimed Jerry, sharply. “It isn’t a talking match, whatever else it is! You’ll get all the race you want pretty soon. We’re coming to a good stretch and I think they’ll hit it up there. Be ready for the word, fellows.”
“Say, boys, he talks; but he won’t let us!” complained Bricktop, winking at Jerry.
“That means you!” insisted the coxswain. He glanced ahead. The launch with the coach had speeded off and was some distance up the river now, evidently waiting for the finish of the little brush.
The talk in the Randall eight had been carried on in low tones, for sounds carry wonderfully clear over water, and the lads, realizing this, did not want their rivals to hear them.
Jerry stole another glance at the Fairview eight, and, unconsciously, probably, nearly every Randall man did likewise. The result was some uneven and ragged rowing, and a bit of splashing.
“Eyes in the boat!” came the sharp command from the little coxswain.
“Oh, you tyrant!” breathed Bricktop Molloy, but his smile took the sting from the words.
An instant later Jerry detected a movement in the rival shell.
“The spurt is coming!” he reasoned. “We must be ready for it!”
He hesitated but an instant, and then, as he noted Roger Barns straighten up slightly in his coxswain seat, and take a fresh grip on the tiller ropes, Jerry called: