"You just bet we are!" shrieked Sid. "Why, we're only two lengths behind! We—we aren't that much!"
"Length and a half," grunted Thurlow.
The two boats were almost abreast of them now and only a couple of hundred yards remained. In and out dipped the red blades and the brown, forward and back bent the straining bodies, back and forth like shuttles slid the two red-faced, shouting coxswains. The strident tones of Maddox came up to those on the hillside:
"Hit it up, now! Hit it up! Ten hard ones! One!... Two!... Three!..."
Ten hard ones made a difference. The bow of the Ferry Hill shell slid up to the stern of the rival boat. On the shore pandemonium reigned. Shouts, yells, shrieks, bellows; entreaty, command; a vocal jumble that no one even heard! For below there on the flashing river the two boats were crossing the finish line, Hammond a half length to the good! Down went the white signal flag.
"Let her run!" cried the Hammond coxswain.
Past the judge's boat floated the shells, victor and vanquished, while on the shore and in the watching craft spectators drew long breaths and turned homeward. In the Ferry Hill boat only Horace Burlen sat erect. Whitcomb was leaning weakly on his oar, Gallup's head was in his hands and Hadden was huddled limply while Maddox splashed water upon him. Hammond was paddling slowly around in a circle, coming back. Abreast of their defeated rivals they rested on their oars and cheered for Ferry Hill. And Ferry Hill cheered weakly for Hammond. And the boat-race was a thing of the past.
"Ten hard ones made a difference"