In the boathouse the great Bob Collingwood, of the ’Varsity crew, gave the freshmen some advice, and they listened to him with positive awe.  He had heard of Merriwell’s attempt to introduce the English stroke, and he did not approve of it.

After he had got through Merriwell took his men aside into another part of the boathouse and warned them against thinking of anything Collingwood had said.

“He is all right when he is talking to men who use his style of oar and the regular American stroke, but you will be broke up sure as fate if you think of what he has said that disagrees with my instructions.  It is too late now to make any change, and we must win or lose as we have practiced.”

“That’s right,” agreed every man.

“We’ll win,” said Rattleton, resolutely.

They could hear the cheering as the other races took place, and at last it came their turn.  How their hearts thumped!  And it was Merriwell that quieted their unsteady nerves with a few low, calm words, which seemed to give them the bracer which they needed before going into the race.

’Umpty-eight yelled like a whole tribe of Indians, wildly waving flags, hats and handkerchiefs, as the freshman boat shot out upon the lake, with Merriwell at the stroke.  They did not row in the buff, as the weather was too cold, but all wore thin white shirts, with “’Umpty-eight” lettered in blue on the breast.

Old rowers looked the freshmen over with astonishment, for they gave the appearance of well-drilled amateurs, and not greenhorns.  There were a few expressions of approval.  The novel stroke was watched and criticised, and an old grad who was regarded as authority declared that the man who set the stroke for that crew was a comer, providing he was built of the right kind of stuff.

Then came the sophs and juniors, both pulling prettily and gracefully, and both being cheered by their classes.  The juniors were light, but they expected to walk away from the freshmen, as they had an expert at the stroke and had been coached by Collingwood.

Soon the three crews lined up, and the voice of the referee was heard: 

“Are you ready?”

Dead silence.

“Go!”

Away shot the boats, and the sophs took the lead directly, their short, snappy stroke giving the boat the required impetus in short order.  The juniors held close on to them, while the freshmen seemed to take altogether too much time to get away, striking a regular, long, swinging stroke that seemed to be “overdone,” as a jubilant sophomore spectator characterized it.

The sophs along the shore and on the point were wild with delight.  They danced and howled, confident of victory at the very outset.  The juniors were enthusiastic, but not so demonstrative as the sophomores.  The freshmen cheered, but there seemed to be disappointment in the sound.

“Whoop ’er up for ’Umpty-seven!” howled the sophs.  “Whoop ’er up!  ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!  This is a cinch!”