“Weigh all.”  The coxswain’s command was immediately followed by others designed to work the boat back to proper starting-position.  Deacon could easily see the Shelburne crew now—­big men all, ideal oarsmen to look at.  Their faces were set and grim, their eyes straight ahead.  So far as they gave indication, their shell might have been alone on the river.  Now the Baliol shell had made sternway sufficient for the man in the skiff to seize the rudder.  The Shelburne boat was already secured.  Astern hovered the referee’s boat, the official standing in the bow directing operations.  Still astern was a larger craft filled with favoured representatives of the two colleges, the rival coaches, the crew-managers and the like.

“Are you all ready, Baliol?”

“Yes, sir.”  Deacon, leaning forward, felt his arms grow tense.

“Are you all ready, Shelburne?”

The affirmative was followed by the sharp report of a pistol.  With a snap of his wrist Deacon beveled his oar, which bit cleanly into the water and pulled.  There followed an interval of hectic stroking, oars in and out of the water as fast as could be done, while spray rose in clouds and the coxswain screamed the measure of the beat.

“Fine, Baliol.”  The coxswain’s voice went past Deacon’s ear like a bullet.  “Both away together and now a little ahead at forty-two to the minute.  But down now.  Down—­down—­down—­down!  That’s it—­thirty-two to the minute.  It’s a long race, remember.  Shelburne’s dropping the beat, too.  You listen to Papa, all of you; he’ll keep you wise.  Number three, for God’s sake don’t lift all the water 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.