Along the Ferry Hill shore, from the landing to a point half a mile further downstream where the finish flags flew, students and villagers, the former in most cases accompanied by friends or relatives, stood, sat or strolled at points of vantage. On the river white-sailed skiffs, chugging launches, gaudy canoes and more sober rowboats darted and drifted across the sunlit water. It was the hottest sort of a June morning and only the steady little northerly breeze kept the heat from being intolerable to the spectators along shore.
The crews had gone up the river half an hour before, the men making the trip to the starting point in comfortable launches, their shells streaking along in tow. The time for starting the race was already past and everyone about the finish was eagerly awaiting the distant boom of the tiny brass cannon aboard the referee's launch which would announce to them that the struggle had begun two miles away.
From where Chub and Roy sat in the midst of a throng of onlookers on a high point of rock near the finish line the entire course was in sight save for a space where Fox Island hid it. Away up the broad blue ribbon of water tiny specks that danced and glittered in the blaze of sunlight told where the start was to be made, but only Sid, who was the proud possessor of a pair of dilapidated field-glasses, could tell one boat from another. At last there was an excited grunt from that youth.
"They're off!" he cried. "I saw the smoke from the cannon on the Sylph!"
And in confirmation of his statement a low boom came down to them on the breeze. Everyone jumped to his feet and gazed intently up-stream. But only such as had glasses were able to throw any light on the situation up there. Sid was popular and voluble.
"We're ahead, 'way ahead!" he cried excitedly. "About two lengths, I guess."
"Hooray!" shrieked Patten.
"No, we're not, either," said Sid lamely. "I was looking at a launch. I can't see our boat at all!"
"O—oh!" groaned the others.
"Yes, there it is! I think—it looks as though—"