He pulled another stroke, then splashed water over Pierce’s head, as he had promised.
The rival oarsmen glanced at him, surprised, apprehensive. The launch with the other blue sweaters approached as near as allowed, her occupants shouting advice vociferously to meet this new turn of affairs. Their placard was not in evidence.
Close in the rear, Harry saw the referee’s launch clipping along, as if awakened to sudden and necessary activity. He was vaguely conscious of the dense, surrounding throng, of carriages and autos crowded in the road, of canoes and dories packed tight at the water’s edge.
He was desperate, but calm. He knew what he wished to do. He knew enough of the sport to know that the sculler has one advantage, that of spurting. Between contesting scullers, well-matched, the spurt at the right moment usually means victory. If he could keep this position through his rival’s “long stroke,” then he stood a chance.
Presently, the order came. “Long stroke—hit her up!” shouted their coach from the motor-boat. They darted ahead, had their little spasm, and Harry remained exactly where he was before—his bow level with their second slide.
They were close on the finish line. The screeching was deafening.
“Hit her up, boys!” came a laughing mandate from the Welden launch. “Once more, hit her up, and let her run!”
The judge’s dory swirled about to clear the way. You would not have thought that Harry could give a longer swing nor pull a more effectual stroke than he had been doing. Yet the shell, bearing the huddled and exhausted scout and its single oarsman, darted silently forward like a streak. Its prow lay even with the prow of the rival craft now. The boys in blue sweaters yelled frantically to their crew, but their cries and orders were drowned in the tumult.
Again, and still again, the agile form swung forward. Again, and still again, the shell responded, cutting the still, sun-flecked water like a knife. Now she was half a length ahead. Then there was a sudden shake of his head as the oars dipped, and his hair flew loose. It was a sight for a painter.
Throwing all his strength into the pull, uniting in a final effort the utmost power and reach of arm and body, he swung back, his head hanging in a kind of loose abandon from the exhaustion of the stroke. And amid the frenzied cheering and clamorous waving of hats and flags, he swept past the finish line.