in the river up on your blade at the finish. Shelburne's
hitting it up a bit. Make it thirty-four."

"Not yet." Deacon scowled at the tense little coxswain. "I'll do the
timing." Chick Seagraves nodded.

"Right. Thirty-two."

Swinging forward to the catch, his chin turned against his shoulder,
Deacon studied the rival crew which with the half-mile flags
flashing by had attained a lead of some ten feet. Their blades were
biting the water hardly fifty feet from the end of his blade, the
naked brown bodies moving back and forth in perfect rhythm and with
undeniable power registered in the snap of the legs on the
stretchers and the pull of the arms. Deacon's eyes swept the face of
the Shelburne coxswain; it was composed. He glanced at the stroke.
The work, apparently, was costing him nothing.

"They're up to thirty-four," cried Seagraves as the mile flags drew
swiftly up.

"They're jockeying us, Chick. We'll show our fire when we get ready.
Let 'em rave."

Vaguely there came to Deacon a sound from the river-bank--Shelburne
enthusiasts acclaiming a lead of a neat half a length.

"Too much--too much." Deacon shook his head. Either Shelburne was
setting out to row her rival down at the start, or else, as Deacon
suspected, she was trying to smoke Baliol out, to learn at an early
juncture just what mettle was in the rival boat. A game,
stout-hearted, confident crew will always do this, it being the part
of good racing policy to make a rival know fear as early as possible.
And Shelburne believed in herself, beyond any question of doubt.

And whether she was faking, or since Baliol could not afford to let
the bid go unanswered, a lead of a quarter of a length at the mile
had to be challenged:

"Give 'em ten at thirty-six!" Deacon's voice was thick with
gathering effort. "Talk it up, Chick."

From the coxswain's throat issued a machine-gun fusillade of
whiplash words.

"Ten, boys! A rouser now. Ten! Come on. One--two--three--four--oh,
boy! Are we walking! Five--six--are they anchored over there?
Seven--oh, you big brown babies! Eight--Shelburne, good
night--nine--wow!--ten!"

Deacon, driving backward and forward with fiery intensity, feeling
within him the strength of some huge propulsive machine, was getting
his first real thrill of conflict--the thrill not only of actual
competition, but of all it meant to him, personally: his father's
well-being, his own career--everything was merged in a luminous
background o