Jake was by profession a fisherman, and a freshwater fisherman in a country village is inspector-general of all that goes on out-of-doors, being a lazy, wandering sort of fellow, whose study of the habits and habitats of fishes gives him a kind of shrewdness of observation, just as dealing in horses is an education of certain faculties, and breeds a race of men peculiarly cunning, suspicious, wary, and wide awake, with a rhetoric of appreciation and depreciation all its own.

Jake made his usual preliminary signal, and delivered himself to the following effect: 

“Wahl, I don’ know jest what to say.  I’ve seed ’em both often enough when they was practisin’, an’ I tell ye the’ wa’n’t no slouch abaout neither on ’em.  But them bats is all-fired long, ‘n’ eight on ’em stretched in a straight line eendways makes a consid’able piece aout ’f a mile ‘n’ a haaf.  I’d bate on them gals if it wa’n’t that them fellers is naterally longer winded, as the gals ’ll find aout by the time they git raound the stake ‘n’ over agin the big ellum.  I’ll go ye a quarter on the pahnts agin the petticoats.”

The fresh-water fisherman had expressed the prevailing belief that the young ladies were overmatched.  Still there were not wanting those who thought the advantage allowed the “Lantas,” as they called the Corinna boatcrew, was too great, and that it would be impossible for the “Quins” to make it up and go by them.

The Algonquins rowed up and down a few times before the spectators.  They appeared in perfect training, neither too fat nor too fine, mettlesome as colts, steady as draught-horses, deep-breathed as oxen, disciplined to work together as symmetrically as a single sculler pulls his pair of oars.  The fisherman offered to make his quarter fifty cents.  No takers.

Five minutes passed, and all eyes were strained to the south, looking for the Atalanta.  A clump of trees hid the edge of the lake along which the Corinna’s boat was stealing towards the starting-point.  Presently the long shell swept into view, with its blooming rowers, who, with their ample dresses, seemed to fill it almost as full as Raphael fills his skiff on the edge of the Lake of Galilee.  But how steadily the Atalanta came on!—–­no rocking, no splashing, no apparent strain; the bow oar turning to look ahead every now and then, and watching her course, which seemed to be straight as an arrow, the beat of the strokes as true and regular as the pulse of the healthiest rower among them all.  And if the sight of the other boat and its crew was beautiful, how lovely was the look of this!  Eight young girls,—­young ladies, for those who prefer that more dignified and less attractive expression,—­all in the flush of youth, all in vigorous health; every muscle taught its duty; each rower alert, not to be a tenth of a second out of time, or let her oar dally with the water so as to lose an ounce of its propelling virtue; every eye kindling with the hope of victory.  Each of the boats was cheered as it came in sight, but the cheers for the Atalanta were naturally the loudest, as the gallantry of one sex and the clear, high voices of the other gave it life and vigor.