Trevor saw the throng through a light mist. With his hands gripping the oar he stared in growing misery at the neck of Number 5 and waited, wondering for the tenth time how much longer the suspense would last. To the left of him was the St. Eustace boat. The fellows were peeling off their sweaters and some were whispering. Then Trevor was removing his own sweater, and the referee was talking to them about something; what it was he didn’t know nor care. If only they would start! He heard Keene’s voice: “Get ready!” He went forward on his slide, turned his blade square in the water, and felt it snug against the thole-pin. “I shall say ‘Are you ready?’ once; if I receive no reply I shall say ‘Go!’” The referee’s voice came through the megaphone with sudden warning. “Touch her easy, Two,” said the cox in quiet unconcerned tones. “That’ll do; steady, Two!” Trevor’s gaze, suddenly roaming to the other boat, saw the rival cox, a red-haired, spidery-looking youth, bending forward, his eyes alert but steady, his hands gripped tight about the lines. The little throng near at hand had grown quiet, almost silent. His head ached a bit, and his eyes---- “_Are you ready?_” His heart gave a leap that threatened to choke him; then sank quickly, suddenly; he waited--waited. Would the word never come? The breeze was ruffling the back of Waters’s shirt. The sun was very bright, and the small waves reflected its rays in the manner of a thousand mirrors. Surely the referee had---- “GO!” There was a rush of blades through the water, a sudden leap, a confused rattling of many oars, a seething on every side, a shouting from bank and boats. The race was on! CHAPTER XXVI AT THE MILE _Splash! Swish! Rattle!_ The oars dug into the water venomously, swirled through, emerged dripping and flashing, disappeared again. Brown, sinewy arms shot forward and back, bodies bent and unbent like powerful springs, the water was thrown in little cascades of glistening pearls, and the coxswains, open-mouthed, intense, cried unintelligible things in the uproar, and looked like vindictive little demons crouching for a spring. There was no long, rhythmic swing of the oars now; there was nothing inspiring to the spectators in the quick, dashing movements of the sweeps; all seemed without system, incoherent. Ten--eleven--twelve--thirteen--fourteen strokes! Then the savage struggle was past, and out from the momentary chaos of uproar and turmoil and seething water the Hillton shell shot into the lead, its bobbing cox even with Number Four of the St. Eustace boat. “Steady all! Lengthen out! Lengthen out!” The plunging dips of the eight crimson-bladed oars ceased. Stroke, with a quick glance at the other boat, moved back to the full limit of the slide, his sweep swirled steadily, almost slowly, through the quieter water, came out square, turned, feathered over yards of racing ripples, and again lost itself under the gleaming surface. “_Time! Time!_” yelled cox.