Following the coxswain's broken exclamation, Deacon felt an increased resistance upon his blade.
"Eh?"
"Innis has carried away his oarlock." The eyes of the coxswain strained upon Deacon's face.
Deacon gulped. Strangely a picture of his father filled his mind.
His face hardened.
"All right! Tell him to throw his oar away and swing with the rest.
Don't move your rudder now. Keep it straight as long as you can."
From astern the sharp eyes of the Shelburne cox had detected the accident to Baliol's Number Six. His voice was chattering stridently.
Deacon, now doing the work practically of two men, was undergoing torture which shortly would have one of two effects. Either he would collapse or his spirit would carry him beyond the claims of overtaxed physique. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes—a groan escaped his lips. Then so far as personality, personal emotions, personal feelings were concerned, Jim Deacon ceased to function. He became merely part of the mechanism of a great effort, the principal guiding part.
And of all those rowing men of Baliol only the coxswain saw the Shelburne boat creeping up slowly, inexorably—eight men against seven. For nearly a quarter of a mile the grim fight was waged.
"Ten strokes more, boys!"
The prow of the Shelburne shell was on a line with Baliol's Number
Two.