# The Eight-Oared Victors/Chapter 34
#### CHAPTER XXXIV
##### THE GREAT RACE

"Are you all ready, boys?" inquired Mr. Lighton.
"My throat's as dry as a limekiln," said Bricktop.
The eight, in their shell, were at the starting point, having gone down in the launch, while the spider-like boat was towed. On either side of them were the Boxer and the Fairview eights, with their crews as eager to get off as were our friends.
"Take a slice of lemon," went on the coach, producing one, and a knife from his launch. "Anybody else have one? Hold the pieces in your mouth," he advised.
Several of the lads accepted bits of the citrous fruit.
"Are your oarlocks all right—and the stretchers?" went on the coach.
Everyone tested his own, and no complaint was forthcoming. Mr. Pierson, who had remained faithful to the last, said something in a low voice to Mr. Lighton.
​"Yes," assented the head coach, adding: "Don't forget to keep your eyes in the boat, whatever you do. Your coxswain will watch the other craft, and tell you when to spurt. This is important—eyes in the boat and no talking. You've got to row!"
For the other crews, their coaches and advisers were speaking the last words to the nervous lads. From time to time those in the Boxer Hall or the Fairview eight looked over at their rivals. Randall was to take the middle course, an advantage that had come to them by lot.
Tom and his three chums wanted desperately to talk about the dramatic scene enacted in the boathouse just before they had started, but there was no chance. They had hurried away, and in the launch, on the trip down, Mr. Lighton held their attention. Tom had managed to slip up to Ruth, and hand her the brooch just before leaving. That she was surprised is putting it mildly.
"Oh, Tom! Where on earth did you get it?" she had cried. "I—I could hug you for this!" and her eyes sparkled.
"We'll postpone the hugging until after the race! Just cheer for our boat!"
"I will. Oh, Tom, my dear old brooch! Can't you tell me how you got it?"
"Not now—later—I haven't time. See you after the race!" and he had run off to join his mates.
​"How much longer?" asked Frank, as he shifted himself on his sliding seat.
"Not much, I guess," replied Mr. Lighton, looking at his watch. "About——"
A shot boomed out from the starter's boat.
"There goes the warning gun," the coach interrupted himself. "A minute more. Take it easy at the start, boys. It isn't a hundred-yard dash, remember. The hard work will come at the end. Steady all—eyes in the boat—row hard—and—win!"
And, with these final words, Mr. Lighton steamed off in his launch, the other coaches also leaving their crews to themselves.
The race was to be down stream, and, in order to make an even start, the stern of each shell had been made fast to an anchored boat in the middle of the river. At the signal the retaining ropes were to be loosed, and the race would start. Eager ears waited for the final signal.
"Get ready boys!" called Jerry Jackson, his eyes on his watch, which he had fastened before him. "You've got about fifteen seconds more."
There were sharp intakings of breath, and the young coxswain, glancing at his crew, noted with satisfaction that the slight tendency toward nervousness, exhibited by some, had disappeared. They were all cool and eager.
Crack! came the report of the starting gun
​On the instant the retaining cables were loosed, and twenty-four oars seemed to take the water as one. It was a good, clean, even start.
To bring the finish opposite the boathouse, it had been necessary to go down the stream some distance, and there were few spectators gathered there.
But such as were there gave forth a hearty cheer, and the yells of the three colleges were given in turn, for some loyal-hearted lads had sacrificed their chances to see the finish, that they might cheer the start.
"Steady, fellows, steady," counseled Jerry, in a low voice, as he noticed a tendency to hurry. "It isn't time to hit up the pace. They're both keeping even with us," he added.
Then began a steady grind. A leaning forward of the bodies, with hands well out over the toes, the dipping of the blades of the oars into the water, and then that tremendous pull of sixteen sturdy arms, shoulders and trunk—the pushing of sixteen muscular legs, the rising off the seats to get all the weight possible on the oar at the point of leverage where it would do the most good.
Over and over again was this repeated. Over and over again, with the eyes of seven of the men on the back of the man in front of him timing the ​movement, and with the eyes of the stroke on the coxswain, to catch the slightest signal.
Stroke after stroke—movement after movement, one just like the other—twenty-eight to the minute, Jerry having started them off with that minimum.
And what Randall was doing, so was Fairview and Boxer Hall, in the same degree.
The first mile was passed, with the net result that all three shells were on even terms, albeit one or the other had forged ahead slightly, not because either one had quickened the pace so much consciously as that they had done so unconsciously, and there was, of course, a difference in the muscular power at times.
They were half way over the second mile—half the course had been rowed.
Frank Simpson, watching Jerry, saw the little coxswain shoot a quick glance toward the Boxer Hall boat, and then stiffen in his seat.
"Hit it up!" cried Jerry, and he gave the signal for a thirty-per-minute stroke. But, even as he did Frank, risking something by taking his eyes off the coxswain, looked across the lane of water.
He saw the Fairview boat shoot ahead, while, the next instant the Randall shell, urged onward by the increased stroke, tried to minimize the advantage gained.