And now backs were bending in perfect unison, oarlocks rattled as one, and rowing superbly at thirty-two strokes to the minute, the crimson eight forced the shining cedar craft away until clear water showed between its rudder and the knifelike bow of its rival. Hillton had gained the first trick, and, although the game was by no means yet won, Dick’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, Keene allowed a smile to cross his face, and on the Terrible, racing along in the wake of the speeding shells, Professor Beck and Coach Kirk glanced at each other and nodded. Across the intervening tide came, shrilly, insistent, the cry of the St. Eustace coxswain: “_Hit her up! Hit her up! Hit her up!_” In response eight blue-clad bodies bent and strained in an endeavor to place their shell beside Hillton’s, and eight blue-tipped oars flashed swiftly back and forth. St. Eustace was rowing thirty-seven. Dick shot a glance of inquiry at Keene. The latter glanced over his right shoulder. “Can’t keep it up,” he answered to Stroke’s unspoken question. “_Four, you’re late!_” Slowly the bow of the St. Eustace boat crept up on them; now it was abreast of their rudder; a dozen strokes more and it was even with cox; a minute later St. Eustace’s bow oar was cutting the water opposite to Dick. But there was no alteration of the latter’s stroke. For a minute or two the Blue’s boat hung tenaciously to the place it had won; then, inch by inch, it dropped astern again, yet so slowly that it was long before Dick was certain that it was so. The Blue was rowing at thirty-three now, and very wisely husbanding her strength. The half-mile was past, and the race was a quarter over.