"Less than a quarter of a mile, boys. In the stretch. Now--my God!"

Following the coxswain's broken exclamation, Deacon felt an
increased resistance upon his blade.

"Eh?"

"Innis has carried away his oarlock." The eyes of the coxswain
strained upon Deacon's face.

Deacon gulped. Strangely a picture of his father filled his mind.
His face hardened.

"All right! Tell him to throw his oar away and swing with the rest.
Don't move your rudder now. Keep it straight as long as you can."

From astern the sharp eyes of the Shelburne cox had detected the
accident to Baliol's Number Six. His voice was chattering stridently.

Deacon, now doing the work practically of two men, was undergoing
torture which shortly would have one of two effects. Either he would
collapse or his spirit would carry him beyond the claims of
overtaxed physique. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes--a groan
escaped his lips. Then so far as personality, personal emotions,
personal feelings were concerned, Jim Deacon ceased to function. He
became merely part of the mechanism of a great effort, the principal
guiding part.

And of all those rowing men of Baliol only the coxswain saw the
Shelburne boat creeping up slowly, inexorably--eight men against
seven. For nearly a quarter of a mile the grim fight was waged.

"Ten strokes more, boys!"

The prow of the Shelburne shell was on a line with Baliol's Number
Two.

"One--two--three--four----" The bow of the Shelburne boat plunged up
abeam Baliol's bow oar.

"Five--six--God, boys!--seven----"

The voice of the coxswain swept upward in a shrill scream. A gun
boomed; the air rocked with the screech and roar of whistles.

Slowly Deacon opened his eyes. Seagraves, the coxswain, was standing
up waving his megaphone. Rollins, at Number Seven, lay prone over
his oar. Innis, who had broken his oarlock, sat erect; Wallace, at
Number Five, was down. So was the bow oar. Mechanically Deacon's
hand sought the water, splashing the body of the man in front of him.
Then suddenly a mahogany launch dashed alongside. In the bow was a
large man with white moustache and florid face and burning black eyes.
His lips were drawn in a broad grin which seemed an anomaly upon the
face of Cephas Doane.

If so he immediately presented a still greater anomaly. He laughed
aloud.

"Poor old Shelburne! I--George! The first in four years! I never saw
anything quite like that. We've talked of Baliol's rowing-spirit--eh!
Her