Now came the strenuous part of the whole race—the last lap. The Kestrels were visibly tiring. Even Heavitree’s Adam’s apple was working convulsively, while the veins in his bared arms stood out like whipcord. Talbot, looking utterly blown, was pulling almost mechanically, gasping through his wide open mouth in his efforts to fill his painfully stifled lungs.
There was but one boat ahead. That was the Pembroke one. The Welshmen were in a far worse plight than Craddock’s crew. They had let themselves go at the start, and were reaping the consequences; yet they, too, were “sticking it” with the fervid tenacity of their race.
For the present Peter dare not call upon his loyal crew for an extra spurt. They were gaining all the time, yet without the final and spectacular burst they would not be able to overlap their rivals. And, of course, the Welshmen would almost certainly respond.
Three hundred yards from home the Kestrel’s gig’s bows were level with the Pembroke boat’s stern. The coxswain of the latter could be heard calling to his men for the final effort. It was now Peter’s chance, provided his jaded crew could respond to it.
“Whack her up, lads!” he shouted. “Last lap!”
Both boats were now in calmer waters. Nobly the Kestrels responded to their coxswain’s call. Blinded with perspiration, with bursting lungs and violently throbbing hearts, aching muscles and blistered palms, they were unconscious of everything but the desire to make that extra spurt.
Now they were dead level with the Welshmen.
“Keep it up, lads!” yelled Peter.
That was as much as they could do. To increase the number of strokes was out of the question. They were perilously close to the breaking-point. Could they stay the course?
The Kestrel’s gig drew ahead. The Pembroke coxswain in a shrill falsetto called upon his men for a final effort. They tried. There was a sharp crack. One of their stretchers had broken.