“Hard lines on them,” thought Peter. “But we were winning, anyway.”
Then for the first time on the homeward run Craddock glanced over his shoulder. He had a shock. The nearest of the remaining competitors was quite five lengths astern. Nothing short of a disaster to the Kestrel’s gig would give any of the boats astern a chance to overtake her now, for the finishing line was less than eighty yards ahead.
But—and that it was that gave Peter a most disconcerting jar—close to the edge of the channel and out of the full force of the adverse tide was the Nottingham boat.
By dint of sheer doggedness she had fought her way through the choppy sea. Then, edging over towards the mud-flats, she found herself under conditions very similar to that of her native Trent. The Nottingham Sea Scouts, admirably trained and in the pink of condition, were not slow to take advantage of the change of fortune. They were now almost level with Craddock’s crew, although separated by about fifty yards of water.
“Pull, lads, pull!” shouted Peter. “For all you’re worth!”
The spirit was willing, but exhausted flesh was unable to respond to the dictates of the brain. Gallantly the crew bent their aching backs, tugging ferociously at the tough ash oars. Then Talbot missed a stroke, the badly trimmed blade slithering ineffectually on the surface.
Before the lad could recover his stroke the gun went.
“Way ’nough!” gulped Peter, and the thoroughly exhausted rowers collapsed, sobbing in their efforts to recharge their bursting lungs.
Completely bewildered, Peter looked in the direction of the Nottingham boat. She was over the line, her crew paddling easily towards the flagship. The Kestrel’s gig was also across the line—but there had been only one gun. What did it mean?
Everyone in the anchored yachts seemed to be cheering. So were the crowd on the beach. Then another competing boat crossed the line with her crew on the verge of utter exhaustion. They received a gun.