“More steam!” Dick urged.  As the Gridley canoe went creeping up on the rival craft, Hartwell muttered another of his ridiculous code signals.

“Preston hasn’t let itself out yet, and we’re next door to panting already,” Tom Reade told himself, with a sinking heart.  “We were fools to enter as a school crew without more practice!”

At this time Dick Prescott was the only one in the war canoe who serenely ignored all doubts.  Of course he couldn’t be sure that he would win.  In fact, all the chances appeared against him.  But the absurd habit, as it seemed to others, of feeling that Gridley could not be beaten, was strong upon him.

More than half way to the upper buoy Preston High School led by more than two lengths.

“Get on, Gridley!  Get on!  Do something!” came the distant yet distinct yells from shore.  Many spectators, in carriages, or on bicycles, were following the rival crews.

“Prescott, what ails you?” came a wailing cry from shore.

There were other discouraging calls, too.  Had Dick been less strong in his faith in Dick & Co. he might have gone to pieces under the nagging.

Bob Hartwell, glancing smilingly back over one shoulder, saw the Gridley boys working.

“We’ve got ’em stung, fellows,” called the Preston High School big chief to his crew.  “Take it easy, but don’t let ’em gain anything.  We won’t try to increase the lead until we’re on the last half of the home stretch.”

A hundred and fifty yards from the upper buoy Dick passed the word: 

“Now, hump a bit.  We want to worry ’em as we get to the buoy.  Make it hot for Preston!  One, two, three, four!”

Some of that distance was covered.  As Preston rounded the buoy Hartwell and his crew came face to face with Gridley, about to round it.

“One, two, three, four!” almost drawled Dick.  He had already passed the signal to his own men, not one of whom obeyed his slow count, but on the other hand, Preston High School for the space of about fifteen seconds, slowed to that crawling count.

“Brace up, you dubs!  Paddle!” roared Hartwell.  “Never mind that funeral march.  Dipperty-dip!”

Preston recovered from its brief trance and shot ahead.  But Gridley was already around the buoy and coming fast.

Half way home from the upper buoy found Preston going strongly, two and a half lengths ahead of Gridley High School.

“Oh, you, Prescott, get up and run!” came the dismal, desperate advice from shore.

As he mentally measured the distance, now, to the finishing line, Dick Prescott’s eyes flashed.

“Now, your reserve power, fellows!” he called in a low, tense voice.  “Make every stroke count!  Full muscle!  Never mind your backs!  One, two, three, four!”

A splendid showing Gridley made.  Soon the lead of the rivals was less than two lengths.

“Steam-ho!” called Hartwell.  “Hot sail!”