“Take your places!” shouted the umpire, five minutes before the half hour.  The two boats felt their way slowly and cautiously to their positions, which had been determined by careful measurement.  After a little backing and filling they got into line, at the proper distance from each other, and sat motionless, their bodies bent forward, their arms outstretched, their oars in the water, waiting for the word.

“Go!” shouted the umpire.

Away sprang the Atalanta, and far behind her leaped the Algonquin, her oars bending like so many long Indian bows as their blades flashed through the water.

“A stern chase is a long chase,” especially when one craft is a great distance behind the other.  It looked as if it would be impossible for the rear boat to overcome the odds against it.  Of course the Algonquin kept gaining, but could it possibly gain enough?  That was the question.  As the boats got farther and farther away, it became more and more difficult to determine what change there was in the interval between them.  But when they came to rounding the stake it was easier to guess at the amount of space which had been gained.  It was clear that something like half the distance, four lengths, as nearly as could be estimated, had been made up in rowing the first three quarters of a mile.  Could the Algonquins do a little better than this in the second half of the race-course, they would be sure of winning.

The boats had turned the stake, and were coming in rapidly.  Every minute the University boat was getting nearer the other.

“Go it, Quins!” shouted the students.

“Pull away, Lantas!” screamed the girls, who were crowding down to the edge of the water.

Nearer,—­nearer,—­the rear boat is pressing the other more and more closely,—­a few more strokes, and they will be even, for there is but one length between them, and thirty rods will carry them to the line.  It looks desperate for the Atalantas.  The bow oar of the Algonquin turns his head.  He sees the little coxswain leaning forward at every stroke, as if her trivial weight were of such mighty consequence,—­but a few ounces might turn the scale of victory.  As he turned he got a glimpse of the stroke oar of the Atalanta.  What a flash of loveliness it was!  Her face was like the reddest of June roses, with the heat and the strain and the passion of expected triumph.  The upper button of her close-fitting flannel suit had strangled her as her bosom heaved with exertion, and it had given way before the fierce clutch she made at it.  The bow oar was a staunch and steady rower, but he was human.  The blade of his oar lingered in the water; a little more and he would have caught a crab, and perhaps lost the race by his momentary bewilderment.

The boat, which seemed as if it had all the life and nervousness of a Derby three-year-old, felt the slight check, and all her men bent more vigorously to their oars.  The Atalantas saw the movement, and made a spurt to keep their lead and gain upon it if they could.  It was of no use.  The strong arms of the young men were too much for the young maidens; only a few lengths remained to be rowed, and they would certainly pass the Atalanta before she could reach the line.