"Are you ready, all?" now called the starter, and each one of the different crews grasped his oar with quickened tension as the coxswains responded: "Ready!" and there followed the sharp report of the pistol.
As the report rang out the oars of the three crews, all like a piece of accurate machinery, struck the water at the same instant and the boats leaped forward as if shot from a spring.
At the start the weight of the Alton crew told, and their boat darted to the front, only to be hugged a moment later by Highpoint, while the Uncas trailed just behind them.
"Easy, boys, easy," cautioned Gerald. "There are three miles of it, you know."
The three boats were all together. Alton a bit in the lead, but without any daylight showing between them. The Uncas last, but still in the race.
"Shure, 'tis foine, ye'r doing," cried Gerald. "Ye have thim all scared. See how they are running away from ye!"
For the first mile there was no change, Alton still leading, but the pace was telling, and Highpoint was creeping up—Uncas still in the rear.
In the next mile there was still no change in the order, and it looked like Alton's race, but as the second mile was passed Highpoint poked its nose in front, Uncas still hugging them. "Now, then!" cried Gerald, as they entered on the last half mile, "hit it up, boys; we are still in it!"
"The mascot's working overtime," panted Dick, "but he's making good."
The boys quickened their stroke in response to Gerald's call, and inch by inch, the Uncas pulled up on their rivals and, just as the finish was reached, slid across the line a scant six inches in front. It was only six inches, but enough, and though the boys could scarce sit up, their fatigue was forgotten in the joy of the unexpected victory.