f emotion for which that glittering oar he held was the
outlet.

Shelburne had met the spurt, but the drive of the Baliol boat was
not to be denied. Gradually the two prows came abreast, and then
Deacon, not stopping at the call of ten, but fairly carrying the
crew along with him, swung on with undiminished ferocity, while
Seagraves' voice rose into a shrill crescendo of triumph as Baliol
forged to the lead.

"They know a little now." Deacon's voice was a growl as gradually he
reduced the beat to thirty-two, Shelburne already having diminished
the stroke.

Deacon studied them. They were rowing along steadily, the eyes of
their coxswain turned curiously upon the Baliol shell. He suspected
the little man would like nothing better than to have Baliol break
her back to the two-mile mark and thus dig a watery grave. He
suspected also, that, failing Baliol's willingness to do this, the
test would now be forced upon her. For Shelburne was a heavy crew
with all sorts of staying power. What Deacon had to keep in mind was
that his eight was not so rugged and had therefore to be nursed along,
conserving energy wherever possible.

It was in the third mile that the battle of wits and judgment had to
be carried to conclusion, the fourth mile lurking as a mere matter
of staying power and ability to stand the gaff. Deacon's idea was
that at present his crew was leading because Shelburne was not
unwilling for the present that this should be. How true this was
became evident after the two-mile flags had passed, when the
Shelburne oarsmen began to lay to their strokes with tremendous drive,
the boat creeping foot by foot upon the rival shell until the Baliol
lead had been overcome and Shelburne herself swept to the fore.

Deacon raised the stroke slightly, to thirty-three, but soon dropped
to thirty-two, watching Shelburne carefully lest she make a
runaway then and there. Baliol was half a length astern at the
two-and-a-half mile mark, passing which the Shelburne crew gave
themselves up to a tremendous effort to kill off her rival then and
there.

"Jim! They're doing thirty-six--walking away."

The coxswain's face was white and drawn.

But Deacon continued to pass up a thirty-two stroke while the
Shelburne boat slid gradually away until at the three-mile mark
there was a foot of clear water between its rudder and the prow of
the Baliol shell.

Deacon glanced at the coxswain. A mile to go--one deadly mile.

"Thirty-six," he