The coxswain was coming in for a fire of criticism from the coach with the megaphone. "Now try it again and watch yourselves—you get worse every day."
"Doesn't it sound natural?" laughed Frank. "No more of that in ours for a year."
The crews, stopping and starting, but always under a shower of advice from the coach, drove their way up to the upper bridge where they were ordered to turn around and line-up for the race down stream. After much dogged paddling by fours and high-pitched orders by the coxswains, for the boats were difficult to swing around in the swift running current, they finally got about and were sent off with a word from the coach who had previously ordered them to keep below twenty-eight to the minute.
Down the river the boats flew, each crew striving with might and main. For a little time it was nip and tuck, but by degrees the First crew edged ahead, and half a mile from the start had a lead of three-quarters of a length and were rowing easily, while the winded Second was splashing along and dropping further back at every stroke. The Codfish was steering a serpentine course which further retarded his boat.
When the crews drew up at the end of the mile, both badly pumped out from the sprint, the coxswain of the Second came in for a raking by the coach.
"You wabbled down that course like a drunken man," he said hotly. "You ought to be on an oyster boat. What's the matter with you? Can't you see?"
"Poor Gleason, he's getting his this afternoon," said Frank.
For another hour the crews were kept on the jump and then, as the dusk was beginning to come down over the hills, the coach ordered them in.