[CHAPTER XXVI]
AT THE MILE
Splash! Swish! Rattle!
The oars dug into the water venomously, swirled through, emerged dripping and flashing, disappeared again. Brown, sinewy arms shot forward and back, bodies bent and unbent like powerful springs, the water was thrown in little cascades of glistening pearls, and the coxswains, open-mouthed, intense, cried unintelligible things in the uproar, and looked like vindictive little demons crouching for a spring. There was no long, rhythmic swing of the oars now; there was nothing inspiring to the spectators in the quick, dashing movements of the sweeps; all seemed without system, incoherent.
Ten—eleven—twelve—thirteen—fourteen strokes! Then the savage struggle was past, and out from the momentary chaos of uproar and turmoil and seething water the Hillton shell shot into the lead, its bobbing cox even with Number Four of the St. Eustace boat.
“Steady all! Lengthen out! Lengthen out!”
The plunging dips of the eight crimson-bladed oars ceased. Stroke, with a quick glance at the other boat, moved back to the full limit of the slide, his sweep swirled steadily, almost slowly, through the quieter water, came out square, turned, feathered over yards of racing ripples, and again lost itself under the gleaming surface.
“Time! Time!” yelled cox.
And now backs were bending in perfect unison, oarlocks rattled as one, and rowing superbly at thirty-two strokes to the minute, the crimson eight forced the shining cedar craft away until clear water showed between its rudder and the knifelike bow of its rival. Hillton had gained the first trick, and, although the game was by no means yet won, Dick’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, Keene allowed a smile to cross his face, and on the Terrible, racing along in the wake of the speeding shells, Professor Beck and Coach Kirk glanced at each other and nodded. Across the intervening tide came, shrilly, insistent, the cry of the St. Eustace coxswain:
“Hit her up! Hit her up! Hit her up!”
In response eight blue-clad bodies bent and strained in an endeavor to place their shell beside Hillton’s, and eight blue-tipped oars flashed swiftly back and forth. St. Eustace was rowing thirty-seven. Dick shot a glance of inquiry at Keene. The latter glanced over his right shoulder.