Part 50 (1/2)

Old rowers looked the freshmen over with astonishment, for they gave the appearance of well-drilled amateurs, and not greenhorns. There were a few expressions of approval. The novel stroke was watched and criticised, and an old grad who was regarded as authority declared that the man who set the stroke for that crew was a comer, providing he was built of the right kind of stuff.

Then came the sophs and juniors, both pulling prettily and gracefully, and both being cheered by their cla.s.ses. The juniors were light, but they expected to walk away from the freshmen, as they had an expert at the stroke and had been coached by Collingwood.

Soon the three crews lined up, and the voice of the referee was heard:

”Are you ready?”

Dead silence.

”Go!”

Away shot the boats, and the sophs took the lead directly, their short, snappy stroke giving the boat the required impetus in short order. The juniors held close on to them, while the freshmen seemed to take altogether too much time to get away, striking a regular, long, swinging stroke that seemed to be ”overdone,” as a jubilant soph.o.m.ore spectator characterized it.

The sophs along the sh.o.r.e and on the point were wild with delight. They danced and howled, confident of victory at the very outset. The juniors were enthusiastic, but not so demonstrative as the soph.o.m.ores. The freshmen cheered, but there seemed to be disappointment in the sound.

”Whoop 'er up for 'Umpty-seven!” howled the sophs. ”Whoop 'er up! 'Rah!

'rah! 'rah! This is a cinch!”

”'Umpty-eight is in it; she will catch 'em in a minute,” sang the freshmen. ”She is crawling on them!”

”All she can do is crawl!” yelled a soph, but his remark was drowned in the wild tumult of noise.

”'Umpty-six is up to tricks!” shouted the juniors. ”'Umpty-six, they are bricks! Whoop 'er up! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah!”

The yelling of the freshmen became louder, for their crew was holding its own--was beginning to gain.

”That is the best freshman crew that ever appeared at Saltonstall,”

declared a spectator. ”Every man seems to be a worker. There's no one s.h.i.+rking.”

”And look at the stroke oar,” urged another. ”That fellow is the winner!

He is working like a veteran, and he is setting a stroke that is bound to tell before the race is over.”

This was true enough. The strong, long stroke of the freshmen kept their boat going steadily at high speed once it was in motion, and they steadily overhauled the juniors, who had fallen away from the sophs. At the stake the freshman crew pa.s.sed the juniors, and the freshmen witnesses had fits.

But that was not the end of the excitement. The speed of the freshman boat was something wonderful, and it was overhauling the sophs, despite the fact that they were pulling for dear life to hold the lead.

And now the shouting for 'Umpty-eight was heard on every side. The sophs were encouraging their men to hold the advantage to the finish, but still the freshmen were gaining.

The nose of the freshman boat crept alongside the sophs, whose faces wore a do-or-die look. The suspense was awful, the excitement was intense:

Then Rattleton was heard talking:

”Well, this is the greatest snap we ever struck! I wonder how the sophs like the Oxford stroke? Oh, my! what guys we are making of them! It don't make a dit of bifference how hard they pull, they're not in the race at all. Poor sophs! Why don't they get out and walk? They could get along faster.”

That seemed to break the sophs up, and then a great shout went up as the freshman boat forged into the lead. They soon led the sophs by a length, and crossed the line thirty feet in advance.

Then Rattleton keeled over, completely done up, but supremely happy.