Mr. Winchester had often boasted of the superiority of his crew. Mr. Landers had not seemed interested in the question, but Gabriel resented the assumption. "Just wait," he used to say to us confidentially. "We'll show him which is de bes' crew. Our time'll come." The men of the mate's boat had shared their officer's vainglorious opinion. They had long swaggered among us with a self-complacent assurance that made us smart. Our chance had at last come to prove their pride a mockery under the skipper's eyes. If ever men wanted, from the bottom of their hearts, to win, we did. We not only had our name as skillful oarsmen to vindicate, but a grudge to wipe out. So evenly matched were the crews that the boats rushed along side by side for at least half a mile, Mr. Winchester insouciant and superciliously smiling, Mr. Landers indifferent, Gabriel all eagerness and excitement. Perhaps Mr. Landers knew his crew was outclassed. If he did not, he was not long in finding it out, for his boat began to drop steadily behind and was soon hopelessly out of the contest. But the other two crews, stroke for stroke, were proving foemen worthy of each other's prowess. "Oho, Gabriel," Mr. Winchester laughed contemptuously, "you think your boat can out-pull us, eh? Bet you ten pounds of tobacco we beat you to the whale." "I take you," cried Gabriel excitedly. "Dat's a bet." If Gabriel accepted the challenge, so did we, and right heartily at that. We threw ourselves, heart and soul, into the struggle. The men in the mate's boat, holding us cheaply, believed they could draw away whenever they chose and go on to win, hands down. The mate kept looking over at us, a supercilious smile still curling the corners of his mouth. "Come on now, my boys," he cried. "All together. Shake her up a bit. Give those fellows a taste of your mettle." We heard his words as distinctly as his own crew heard them--he was only a few boat lengths away. They inspired us to greater exertion than they inspired his own men. They spurted. So did we. Still the two boats raced neck and neck. We were not to be shaken off. The mate looked disconcerted. His men had done their level best to take the lead and they had failed. That spurt marked the crisis of the race. The mate's smile faded out. His face grew anxious. Then it hardened into an expression of grim determination. He had sat motionless at the beginning. Now when he saw his vaunted superiority slipping through his fingers he began to "jockey"--throwing his body forward in violent lunges at every stroke of the sweeps, pushing with all his might on the stroke oar, and booming out, "Pull, my boys; pull away, my boys." But old Gabriel was "jockeying," too, and encouraging us in the same fashion. "We show dat mate," he kept repeating. "We show him. Steady together, my lads. Pull away!"