By a series of inquiries among the jubilant throng below, the party succeeded in learning that the next heat was to be between the Port Henry boys and some boy scouts from somewhere.
The moments seemed long before the excitement along the shore told that the second pair of contestants were coming down the course. Soon they shot into view, gliding abreast, as it seemed, with the little power-boat of the referee close in their wake. Harry studied the crews with his glasses, as the rise and fall of the oars became discernible.
“They’re walking along, all right,” he said, handing Gordon the glass. “Can you make out their flags?”
They had left the three-quarters flag behind them, and the moving backs of the rowers and the long sweep of the oars were plainly visible. The rowing seemed mechanical—perfect. Each shell held its way wonderfully between strokes. Neither bow swerved, but they came down through the cheering, frantic crowds like two arrows. The flags, fluttering behind, afforded no hint to those at the finish line, but as the shells neared, loud shouts went up for Port Henry, and many flags were waved.
A clumsy-looking motor-boat shot out from the shore, and followed in the wake of the referee’s boat, as close as it dared. It held several people, notably a man in white. The party on the yacht watched breathlessly as the oars rose dripping from the water, paused a fraction of a second in air, then plunged silently, uniformly, into the sun-flecked lake.
Far forward, far backward, leaned each crew with mathematical precision, as the shells, side by side, sped on. Then one crept forward.
“They’re hitting it up,” said Harry, as deafening yells rose about them.
They were close on the finish line now, one nearly half a length ahead. Cheers for Port Henry filled the air. “Come on! Row!” some one shouted.
“You’re walking away from them!”
The second boat’s prow was even with the forward rower of the rival shell. Then it lagged even with the second oarsman. Then it fell astern, amid a pandemonium of waving and yelling.