“’Umpty-eight is in it; she will catch ’em in a minute,” sang the freshmen.  “She is crawling on them!”

“All she can do is crawl!” yelled a soph, but his remark was drowned in the wild tumult of noise.

“’Umpty-six is up to tricks!” shouted the juniors. “’Umpty-six, they are bricks!  Whoop ’er up!  ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!”

The yelling of the freshmen became louder, for their crew was holding its own—­was beginning to gain.

“That is the best freshman crew that ever appeared at Saltonstall,” declared a spectator.  “Every man seems to be a worker.  There’s no one shirking.”

“And look at the stroke oar,” urged another.  “That fellow is the winner!  He is working like a veteran, and he is setting a stroke that is bound to tell before the race is over.”

This was true enough.  The strong, long stroke of the freshmen kept their boat going steadily at high speed once it was in motion, and they steadily overhauled the juniors, who had fallen away from the sophs.  At the stake the freshman crew passed the juniors, and the freshmen witnesses had fits.

But that was not the end of the excitement.  The speed of the freshman boat was something wonderful, and it was overhauling the sophs, despite the fact that they were pulling for dear life to hold the lead.

And now the shouting for ’Umpty-eight was heard on every side.  The sophs were encouraging their men to hold the advantage to the finish, but still the freshmen were gaining.

The nose of the freshman boat crept alongside the sophs, whose faces wore a do-or-die look.  The suspense was awful, the excitement was intense: 

Then Rattleton was heard talking: 

“Well, this is the greatest snap we ever struck!  I wonder how the sophs like the Oxford stroke?  Oh, my! what guys we are making of them!  It don’t make a dit of bifference how hard they pull, they’re not in the race at all.  Poor sophs!  Why don’t they get out and walk?  They could get along faster.”

That seemed to break the sophs up, and then a great shout went up as the freshman boat forged into the lead.  They soon led the sophs by a length, and crossed the line thirty feet in advance.

Then Rattleton keeled over, completely done up, but supremely happy.

How the freshmen spectators did cheer!

“’Umpty-eight!  ’Umpty-eight!  Whoop ’er up!  ’Rah! ‘rah!’ rah!”

It was another great victory for the freshmen—­and Frank Merriwell, and that night a great bonfire blazed on the campus and the students made merry.  They blew horns, sang, cheered and had a high old time.

The freshmen made the most noise, and they were very proud and aggressive.  Never had Yale College freshmen seemed happier.

“Where is Merriwell?” was the question that went around.

A committee was sent to search for him, and they returned with him on their shoulders.  He tried to get down, but he could not.