And whether she was faking, or since Baliol could not afford to let the bid go unanswered, a lead of a quarter of a length at the mile had to be challenged: 

“Give ’em ten at thirty-six!” Deacon’s voice was thick with gathering effort.  “Talk it up, Chick.”

From the coxswain’s throat issued a machine-gun fusillade of whiplash words.

“Ten, boys!  A rouser now.  Ten!  Come on.  One—­two—­three—­four—­oh, boy!  Are we walking!  Five—­six—­are they anchored over there?  Seven—­oh, you big brown babies!  Eight—­Shelburne, good night—­nine—­wow!—­ten!”

Deacon, driving backward and forward with fiery intensity, feeling within him the strength of some huge propulsive machine, was getting his first real thrill of conflict—­the thrill not only of actual competition, but of all it meant to him, personally:  his father’s well-being, his own career—­everything was merged in a luminous background of 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.