closely,--a few more strokes, and they will be even, for there is but one
length between them, and thirty rods will carry them to the line. It
looks desperate for the Atalantas. The bow oar of the Algonquin turns
his head. He sees the little coxswain leaning forward at every stroke,
as if her trivial weight were of such mighty consequence,--but a few
ounces might turn the scale of victory. As he turned he got a glimpse of
the stroke oar of the Atalanta. What a flash of loveliness it was! Her
face was like the reddest of June roses, with the heat and the strain and
the passion of expected triumph. The upper button of her close-fitting
flannel suit had strangled her as her bosom heaved with exertion, and it
had given way before the fierce clutch she made at it. The bow oar was a
staunch and steady rower, but he was human. The blade of his oar
lingered in the water; a little more and he would have caught a crab, and
perhaps lost the race by his momentary bewilderment.

The boat, which seemed as if it had all the life and nervousness of a
Derby three-year-old, felt the slight check, and all her men bent more
vigorously to their oars. The Atalantas saw the movement, and made a
spurt to keep their lead and gain upon it if they could. It was of no
use. The strong arms of the young men were too much for the young
maidens; only a few lengths remained to be rowed, and they would
certainly pass the Atalanta before she could reach the line.

The little coxswain saw that it was all up with the girls' crew if she
could not save them by some strategic device.

"Dolus an virtus quis in hoste requirat?"

she whispered to herself,--for The Terror remembered her Virgil as she
did everything else she ever studied. As she stooped, she lifted the
handkerchief at her feet, and took from it a flaming bouquet. "Look!" she
cried, and flung it just forward of the track of the Algonquin. The
captain of the University boat turned his head, and there was the lovely
vision which had a moment before bewitched him. The owner of all that
loveliness must, he thought, have flung the bouquet. It was a challenge:
how could he be such a coward as to decline accepting it.

He was sure he could win the race now, and he would sweep past the line
in triumph with the great bunch of flowers at the stem of his boat, proud
as Van Tromp in the British channel with the broom at his mast-head.

He turned the boat's head a little by backing water. He came up with