"Saint Eustace! Saint Eustace! Saint Eustace!"
"Hillton! Hillton! Hillton!"
Then the cheering grew louder and more frenzied as, boat to boat, the
rival eights passed the half-mile buoy, swinging along with no
perceptible effort over the blue, dancing water.
"Anybody's race," said Outfield West, as he lowered his glasses. "But
Hillton's got the outside course on the turn." The turn was no more than
a slight divergence from the straight line at the one-mile mark, but it
might mean from a half to three quarters of a length to the outside
boat should they maintain their present relative positions. For the next
half mile the same moderate strokes were used until the half-course buoy
was almost reached, when Hillton struck up to thirty-two and then to
thirty-four, and St. Eustace increased her stroke to the latter number.
It was a race for the position nearest the buoy, and St. Eustace won it,
Hillton falling back a half length as the course was changed. Then the
strokes in both boats went back to thirty-two, Hillton seemingly willing
to keep in the rear. On and on they came, the oars taking the water in
unison, and shining like silver when the sun caught the wet blades. And
back, the wakes seemed like two ruled marks, so straight they were.
There was no let up of the cheering now. Back and forth went challenge
and reply across the stream, while the watchers on the bridge fairly
shook that iron-trussed structure with the fury of their slogans.
As the boats neared the three-quarter buoy it was plain to all who
looked that the real race was yet to come.
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