t was the rallying-place for every available steam-
and motor-boat in the Squadron, crowded with enthusiastic supporters of
the different crews. The Dockyard tug, with its freight of hoarse yet
still vociferous sailor-men, had weighed her anchor, and moved down to
the end of the line preparatory to steaming in the wake of the last
race.

The Umpire, in the stern of an officious picket-boat, was apparently
the only dispassionate participator in the animated scene. The long,
graceful-looking boats, each with its crew of six, their anxious-faced
coxswains crouched in the sterns, and tin flags bearing the numbers of
their ships in the bows, were being shepherded into position. A tense
silence was closing down on the spectators. It deepened as the line
straightened out, and the motionless boats awaited the signal with
their oars poised in readiness for the first stroke.

"Up a little, number seven!" shouted the starter wearily through his
megaphone. Two hours of this sort of thing robs even the Officers'
Gigs of much outstanding interest to the starter.

"Goo-o-o!" whispered one of the watching men. "'E don't 'arf know 'is
job, the coxswain of that boat."

The boat in question with a single slow stroke moved up obediently.

"Stand by!" sang the metallic voice again. Then--

_Bang!_ They were off.

As if released by the concussion, a wild pandemonium burst from the
waiting spectators' throats. The light boats sprang forward like
things alive, and in their churning wakes came the crowded steam-boats.

For perhaps two minutes the racing boats travelled as if drawn by
invisible threads of equal length. Then first one and then another
dropped a little. The bow of one of the outside boats broke an oar,
and before the oarsman could get the spare one into the crutch the boat
slipped to the tail of the race. The spare oar shipped, however, she
maintained her position, and her crew continued pulling against
hopeless odds with pretty gallantry.

Half-way down the mile course there were only four boats in it. The
Flagship's boat led by perhaps a yard, with a rival on either side of
her pulling stroke for stroke. Away to the right and well clear, the
Young Doctor urged his crew on with sidelong glances out of the corner
of his eye at the other boats.

"You've got 'em!" he said. "You've got 'em cold. Steady does it!
Quicken a fraction, Number One. Stick it, Bow, stick it, lad!"

The Flagship's boat had increa