“Row! Row!” he screamed, and his voice was hoarse. His hands, tense and gripped, were clasped so tightly on the tiller ropes, that afterward they had to loosen them for him. The muscles had gone dead, but he steered with the skill of a veteran.
It grew black before Tom’s eyes. He felt that his lungs were bursting. Frank knew that if he dipped the oar in the water again he would not have strength to pull it out.
But, somehow he did!
And then with one last spurt, a spurt that seemed to wrench the very roots of their hearts, a pull that seemed to tear their very muscles loose, the lads in the Randall shell sent their boat over the finish line a winner—a winner by half a length—a winner! They were the eight-oared victors!
And, as they realized this—as it came to them—their eyes that saw not lighted up—their faces, seamed and lined with the contracted muscles, broke into smiles, and then Tom toppled over on his oar, and Frank fell weakly back on Molloy.
“Easy there, me lad, easy,” panted Bricktop. “It’s all over. You collapsed at the right minute! Oh, wow, but I’m thirsty!”
Jerry Jackson was struggling with the tiller lines wound about his nerveless hands. Ready chums loosed them, and helped him from the shell onto a boat, the crew having recovered sufficiently to put their broad blades out on the water to steady the shell.
And then, following the hush that came after the hysterical outburst which greeted the winners, came floating over the heads of the great throng:
“Aut Vincere! Aut Mori!”