“Jim!  They’re doing thirty-six—­walking away.”

The coxswain’s face was white and drawn.

But Deacon continued to pass up a thirty-two stroke while the Shelburne boat slid gradually away until at the three-mile mark there was a foot of clear water between its rudder and the prow of the Baliol shell.

Deacon glanced at the coxswain.  A mile to go—­one deadly mile.

“Thirty-six,” he said.  “Shelburne’s can’t have much more left.”

The time had passed for study now.  Gritting his teeth, Deacon bent to his work, his eyes fixed upon the swaying body of the coxswain, whose sharp staccato voice snapped out the measure; the beat of the oars in the locks came as one sound.

“Right, boys!  Up we come.  Bully—­bully—­bully!  Half a length now.  Do you hear?  Half a length!  Give me a quarter, boys.  Eh, Godfrey!  We’ve got it.  Now up and at ’em, Baliol.  Oh, you hell-dogs!”

As in a dream Deacon saw the Shelburne boat drift into view, saw the various oarsmen slide past until he and the rival stroke were rowing practically abeam.

“That’s for you, Dad,” he muttered—­and smiled.

He saw the men swing with quickened rhythm, saw the spray fly like bullets from the Shelburne blades.

“Look out.”  There was a note of anguish in Seagraves’ voice.  “Shelburne’s spurting again.”

A malediction trembled upon Deacon’s lips.  So here was the joker held in reserve by the rival crew!  Had Baliol anything left?  Had he anything left?  Grave doubt was mounting in his soul.  Away swept the Shelburne boat inches at a stroke until the difference in their positions was nearly a length.  Three miles and a half!  Not an observer but believed that this gruelling contest had been worked out.  Seagraves, his eyes running tears, believed it as he swung backward and forward exhorting his men.  Half a mile more!  The crews were now rowing between the anchored lines of yachts and excursion-craft.  The finish boat was in sight.

And now Deacon, exalted by something nameless, uttered a cry and began to give to Baliol more than he really had.  Surely, steadily, he raised his stroke while his comrades, like the lion-hearts they were, took it up and put the sanction of common authority upon it.  Thirty-four!  Thirty-six!  Not the spurt of physical prowess, but of indomitable mentality.

“Up we come!” Seagraves’ voice was shrill like a bugle.  He could see expressions of stark fear in the faces of the rival oarsmen.  They had given all they had to give, had given enough to win almost any race.  But here in this race they had not given enough.

On came the Baliol shell with terrific impulse.  Quarter of a mile; Shelburne passed, her prow hanging doggedly on to the Baliol rudder.

Victory!  Deacon’s head became clear.  None of the physical torture he had felt in the past mile was now registered upon his consciousness.  No thought but that of impending victory!