Dick opened his eyes again and looked up the stream, and hope came to him. One of the launches--it looked like the Terrible--had crossed into the wakes of the shells. If Trevor only came up again! Dick cried within him. And even while his thoughts took the form of a wild, incoherent prayer he saw the launch circle to port and stop. And when she once more swung about the sunlight glowed on a dripping crimson shirt. “Safe!” cried Dick aloud. Keene nodded and glanced anxiously ahead. Dick with thankful heart tugged stoutly at his oar. “Where are they?” he gasped. “Three lengths ahead,” answered Keene. “We’re holding them now.” He raised his voice. “Six, you’ve got to do two men’s work now! Long and steady does it! Bow, you’re late! Steady all!” The mile buoy was far astern. St. Eustace, rowing well at thirty-six, was, as Keene had said, three lengths in the lead. Trevor’s dead weight and dragging oar had given her her chance. Her crew had seen the trouble in the Hillton shell, and, whatever their emotions were, they were now confident of success, for a three-length lead and eight oars to seven spelled victory for the Blue. The St. Eustace coxswain glanced back over his shoulder and gave a command to the men. The distance had not increased since the Crimson’s Number 4 had gone overboard; that wouldn’t do. The blue-clad eight hit up their stroke. But Keene had been watching and waiting. He would rather have had the struggle come later, in the last half mile; but there was no help for it. “Now, fellows, ten hard ones and together! Swing out and use your legs! One!... Two!... Three!...” For the first time in the race the seven boys put every bit of weight and muscle into their strokes. They all knew what the words meant; St. Eustace, somewhere ahead there, was spurting and trying to draw away; if she succeeded it was all up with them. Backs bent and sprang, slides sped from stop to stop, arms and legs straightened and doubled until muscles knotted like ropes beneath tanned skin, blades cleaved the surface like ruddy knives and emerged yards distant to skim and flash over the swirling, racing water for the next grip, breaths came in deep gasps, and the shell flew forward, seeming rather to skim the surface as a darting swallow skims the bosom of a pond, than to cleave the glinting water. “_Seven!... Eight!... Nine!... Ten!_” counted the coxswain. “Don’t slacken! Keep her going! We’re gaining on them hand over fist! Hard, all, hard, and use your legs for all that’s in ’em!” And gaining they were. With seven oars instead of eight, with a boat that listed plainly to bow-side, they were gaining! St. Eustace’s coxswain looked back again; again shrieked to his crew. But this time the response was not evident. They were doing their best. As the beginning of the last half-mile was reached the voice of the bobbing figure in the stern of the St. Eustace shell came to Dick’s ears, and his heart leaped at the sound: