At the next speed they went forward a little faster, to be sure.  Yet there was a decided lack of speed or a pull-back somewhere.

“Don’t lose your nerve, Gridley!” floated Hartwell’s voice over the water as the Preston canoe shot by at a wind-jamming speed.

“Want a tow, Gridley?” hailed someone from shore.

“Next speed, fellows!  Hit it up hard,” called Dick Prescott.  Perspiration from extreme nervousness broke out on his forehead.

Strive as he would, the crew captain of the Gridleys could not shake off the gloomy depression that assailed him.  Something was wrong—–­radically wrong!  The “Scalp-hunter” was not showing a winning gait!

“Best speed—–­and work, fellows!” called Dick, as quietly as ever, though in his voice there was a note almost of despair.

Now, indeed, the Gridley craft sped through the water.  Yet all of her crew, and many people on shore, realized that the war canoe was not showing a prize-taking gait.

How Dick, Dave, Tom and the others worked, bending all their energies to the task!  Yet all felt the same awful doubts.

Bang!  The first gun had sounded.

“Down to the line, fellows!” Dick called.  “Put in all the steam you can.  I was wrong not to have warmed you up before.  Get your blood to moving.  One, two, three, four!  Hump it!  Hump it!”

Their bodies streaming with perspiration, breath coming fast, their faces deeply flushed, Dick & Co. bent to their paddling.  They were moving fast, yet not as fast as they should be moving and back.

“What on earth can ail our boys?” cried Laura Bentley anxiously as she watched.

“They’re moving fast,” replied Clara Marshall.

“Yet not the way they should move,” Laura insisted.  “There’s nothing about them of the easy, brisk form that Preston High School shows to-day.”

“Don’t hint at defeat!” shuddered Belle Meade.  “We might be able to stand a Gridley defeat, but the boys couldn’t.”

Preston’s canoe now rested on the water, ready to be aligned at the referee’s order.  Gridley’s craft seemed to be straining as she neared the line.

Suddenly three sharp, short, shrill blasts sounded from the whistle of the judges’ launch.

“Prescott!” roared the referee.

“Now, what’s up, I wonder?” Dick asked himself, with another sinking feeling at heart.

The judges’ boat was making fast time toward the Gridley High School entry.

CHAPTER XX

“DINKY-BAT!  HOT SAIL!”

“Captain Prescott, what is wrong with your boat?” demanded Referee Tyndall, as the judges’ launch stole up close.

“Something seems to be wrong with us, I’ll admit, sir,” Dick made answer.  “I’ll be greatly obliged to you, sir, if you’ll tell me what it is.

“What are you towing?” asked the referee bluntly.