On the instant the retaining cables were loosed, and twenty-four oars seemed to take the water as one. It was a good, clean, even start.
To bring the finish opposite the boathouse, it had been necessary to go down the stream some distance, and there were few spectators gathered there.
But such as were there gave forth a hearty cheer, and the yells of the three colleges were given in turn, for some loyal-hearted lads had sacrificed their chances to see the finish, that they might cheer the start.
“Steady, fellows, steady,” counseled Jerry, in a low voice, as he noticed a tendency to hurry. “It isn’t time to hit up the pace. They’re both keeping even with us,” he added.
Then began a steady grind. A leaning forward of the bodies, with hands well out over the toes, the dipping of the blades of the oars into the water, and then that tremendous pull of sixteen sturdy arms, shoulders and trunk—the pushing of sixteen muscular legs, the rising off the seats to get all the weight possible on the oar at the point of leverage where it would do the most good.
Over and over again was this repeated. Over and over again, with the eyes of seven of the men on the back of the man in front of him timing the movement, and with the eyes of the stroke on the coxswain, to catch the slightest signal.
Stroke after stroke—movement after movement, one just like the other—twenty-eight to the minute, Jerry having started them off with that minimum.
And what Randall was doing, so was Fairview and Boxer Hall, in the same degree.
The first mile was passed, with the net result that all three shells were on even terms, albeit one or the other had forged ahead slightly, not because either one had quickened the pace so much consciously as that they had done so unconsciously, and there was, of course, a difference in the muscular power at times.