The boats were even! Pandemonium had now broken loose. The band was drowned out by shouts. Ruth found herself hammering Madge on the back, and shouting—she knew not what—in her ear. Madge was crying—she did not know why.
As for the Randall lads, they were mere machines. There was no more thought left in them. They saw nothing, but each man in front of him viewed his fore-man’s back—Frank could not see the face of Jackson, but he could hear his rasping voice.
“Row! Row!”
How Frank heaved! How he dug at the giving water at the end of his blade as though he would tear it from the river and fling it aloft in a rainbow arch.
And how Bricktop Molloy took up the stroke, his honest Irish face wet with sweat—his red hair plastered down on his forehead. Back and forth he bent. After him came Holly Cross picking up the stroke masterly—then Kindlings—good old Kindlings with something of the fire of his name in his sturdy muscles—then Housenlager—all the desire for horseplay gone from him. Then Sid, who had been shifted back to Number Three almost at the last moment. Then Phil, and then Tom.
And how they rowed! Surely the ancient gods—surely even Hercules at his twelve labors—never toiled more Titanically than these eight rowers. No galley slave, chained to the oar, with the vessel on fire above him, with the shrieks of the dying in his ears, the stench of Greek fire in his nostrils, ever rowed more desperately.
“Row! Row!” screamed Jerry.
“Row! Row!” echoed Roger Barns.
[The finish line was but a hundred feet away.] Slowly, oh, so slowly, did the Randall boat creep up on her rival.
Now she was past! Another electric thrill went through Jerry.