ale began to creep along by Harvard's
side.

No. 7 of the Harvard crew reeled on his seat. Then he braced up and went
at it again. But he was not in stroke. The faces of both crews were set.
They were like gladiators battling for their very lives.

In the Yale boat was one who seemed to be growing blind and numb. In his
heart he was praying for strength as earnestly as he would have prayed
for the salvation of his soul. Only a few moments more--he must hold
out.

The boats were side by side, and the excitement was simply
indescribable. Such a finish was unprecedented. It was a race to be
remembered for all years to come--to be spoken of with pride and
discussed with wonder.

Then came the moment when Collingwood drove his men for all there was in
them. He was pitiless, and Yale shot into the lead.

The line was crossed. Then cannons boomed and whistles shrieked. But in
the Yale boat was one whose ears were deaf to all this tumult of sound.

Frank Merriwell had fallen in the bottom of the boat in a dead faint.

But Yale--Yale had won!

CHAPTER XVIII.

AFTER THE BOAT RACE.

"Breka Co ax Co ax Co ax!
Breka Co ax Co ax Co ax!
O--up! O--up!
Paraboleau!
Yale! Yale! Yale!
'Rah! 'rah! 'rah!
Yale!!!"

Imagine a thousand, full-lunged, hearty, healthy American lads shouting
this cry in unison! It was a sound never to be forgotten by those who
heard it. The victorious blue fluttered everywhere.

Harvard had made a gallant fight, and it had been "nobody's race" almost
to the finish. The Yale crew proved superior, but it won purely by brawn
and stamina. Old oars confessed that up to the last half mile Harvard
had shown better coaching and had seemed to establish the superiority of
the Oxford oar and stroke over American methods.

But "Old Eli" had seemed to feel that it would be a lasting disgrace to
be vanquished by anything about which there was an English flavor. The
spirit of Bunker Hill and '76 was aroused, and the defenders of the blue
were willing to die in the struggle if such a sacrifice could bring
victory.

It was not the first time that pure grit had won against odds.

As the Yale boat crossed the line Frank lay, deaf to all the tumult of
applause, his eyes closed, but still with his pale face set in a look of
mingled pain and unyielding determination.

"It's Merriwell!" exclaimed Bob Collingwood. "I had forgotten him."

His words were drowned by the roaring of