Preston’s paddles flashed in the sunlight in unison, in the best, swiftest stroke they had yet shown.  Over on shore the Preston boosters let their lungs loose in cheering yells.

“Wait for a tugboat, Prescott!”

“You’re up against the real thing, Gridley!”

“Come on in, Hartwell!  The other canoe is tied to the shore!”

“More steam!” ordered Dick.  “More steam!  Your best, prize winning stroke now.”

Again Hartwell glanced backward.  Now the prow of the war canoe was less than half a length from the stern of the Preston craft.

Up and up it came.  Hartwell, in a burst of energy, shouted his prize signal: 

“Dinky-bat!  Hot sail!”

The new spurt carried Preston High School ahead once more.

CHAPTER XXI

NATURE HAS A DISMAL STREAK

“Come on, Prescott!”

“Or else sink!”

“Don’t come back to Gridley!”

The cries from shore, as the Gridley boosters noted the effects of the fine Preston work, were not encouraging.

“Preston High School wins!”

Indeed, it looked as though Hartwell’s craft must be the winner.  Shorter and shorter became the distance to the finish line.

True, Big Chief Dick was bringing his prow close up to the stern of the “Pathfinder” once more, but Preston evidently had a little reserve steam left as yet.

“Go it, Hartwell!  Go it!  You win!  Hurrah!”

Suddenly over the water traveled Dick Prescott’s command: 

“Now, then, Gridley!  Break your backs!”

This time there was no counting, nor was there any need of any.  From Dave back to Dick all six bent their full strength and wind to the task of making the “Scalp-hunter” dart over the water.  It was a grueling, killing pace that Dick had set for his crew, but it did not need to last long.  The finish line was close at hand.

Hartwell saw the “Scalp-hunter’s prow steal up on a level with the centre of his own canoe.

“Go it, fellows—–­one last, big spurt!” he yelled.

A sudden yell from shore told another story.  The war canoe’s nose was now six feet further along than the bow of the Preston canoe.

“Come on, Dick!  Come on!  Come on!”

“Speed!  The last swift dash!” yelled Dick Prescott.  “Bend to it!”

Hartwell tried to call to his crew, but could not make himself heard.  The yelling from the shore, and from the boats nearby drowned out all other sounds.

The two canoes seemed to be rivaling express trains in their speed.  Then the cheers of one faction drowned the groans of the other.

Gridley High School had shot across the finish line by a length and a half lead over Preston High School.

Just as the “Pathfinder” left the line astern there came from the Preston craft a sound like the report of a pistol.