“I don’t,” Dick answered quietly.  “The fellow who rigged the drag probably wasn’t the same fellow who planned the scheme.”

“I’m going to provoke a fight with a certain party, one of these days, anyway,” threatened Dave, his brow dark with anger.

“Forget it now,” Dick urged.  “The fellow whose mind is ruled by an angry passion isn’t in the best form for athletic work.  Banish all unpleasant thoughts, all of you fellows.”

By degrees the big chief from Gridley warmed up his braves in the war canoe.  He had them going in earnest, at nearly their best speed, just as the first gun was fired—–­a pistol in the hand of the starter on board the judges’ boat.

“We’ll go over there in our best style,” Prescott called.  “Try to give the people on shore something worth looking at—–­they’ve waited long enough to see something!  One, two, three, four!  One, two, three, four!”

In absolute precision the Gridley High School boys moved at their work, their swift, deft, strong strokes sending the birch bark craft darting over the water in a fashion that brought a cheer from shore.

“Deep breathing just as soon as we’re at rest at the line,” Dick warned his chums.  “At the start try to make the first breath carry you for four strokes!”

In a short time the referee had the canoes with their noses at the line, and at an interval from each other satisfactory to him.

“Thirty seconds to the start!” called the time-keeper.  “Twenty seconds!”

In the Gridley canoe each boy sat bent slightly forward, his paddle raised at the proper position.

“Ten seconds!” called the starter.   Then-----

Bang!  Away shot the canoes.  Over all other sounds could be heard Dick’s low-toned: 

“One, two, three, four!  One, two, three, four!”

The Preston boys heard him, and Dick noted, with amusement, that they unconsciously adapted their own stroke to his count.

“Cut that numeral business,” grunted Bob Hartwell, across the water.  “You’re queering our fellows.”

“They mustn’t listen to our signals,” Dick laughed back.  “One, two, three, four!”

“Come on, fellows; get ahead of that Gridley crowd, where we can’t hear ’em,” urged Hartwell.  “Hanky pank!”

At that the Preston canoe managed to get a slight lead.  Dick did not vary his count, however.  He had no objection to being led slightly to the upper buoy.

Soon, however, Preston High School made the distance two lengths.  Dick began to count a bit faster.

“Put a little more steam on, fellows,” he urged.

So the gap was closed up somewhat.  But Hartwell, glancing back, called: 

“Mumbleby hoptop!”

Whatever that signal meant the Preston boys were now paddling a stronger and slightly swifter stroke.  Dick, too, increased the stroke.

Despite it all, however, Preston was now securing more and more of a lead by almost imperceptible gains.  Dave Darrin, in the bow seat of the war canoe, eyed the water interval between the two canoes with a frowning glance.