The crews, stopping and starting, but always under a shower of advice from the coach, drove their way up to the upper bridge where they were ordered to turn around and line-up for the race down stream. After much dogged paddling by fours and high-pitched orders by the coxswains, for the boats were difficult to swing around in the swift running current, they finally got about and were sent off with a word from the coach who had previously ordered them to keep below twenty-eight to the minute. Down the river the boats flew, each crew striving with might and main. For a little time it was nip and tuck, but by degrees the First crew edged ahead, and half a mile from the start had a lead of three-quarters of a length and were rowing easily, while the winded Second was splashing along and dropping further back at every stroke. The Codfish was steering a serpentine course which further retarded his boat. When the crews drew up at the end of the mile, both badly pumped out from the sprint, the coxswain of the Second came in for a raking by the coach. "You wabbled down that course like a drunken man," he said hotly. "You ought to be on an oyster boat. What's the matter with you? Can't you see?" "Poor Gleason, he's getting his this afternoon," said Frank. For another hour the crews were kept on the jump and then, as the dusk was beginning to come down over the hills, the coach ordered them in. "Race it for the float," he commanded, "and look out for the sand bar by the bridge. It's low water. GO!" The Second was lying about a length ahead of the First boat when the order was given, and, seeing his opportunity, the Codfish shouted: "Now we've got them, beat 'em to it. Row, you terriers!" Throwing what science they had learned to the winds, the Second Freshman crew drove their oars into the water and, at a stroke far above what the coach wanted, tore off for the boathouse, the shell swaying and the water flying while the Codfish urged them on at the top of his voice. "Sock it through, you huskies, don't let them get you!" The First crew, not to be outdone, started after the Second. At first they kept the stroke down, but the coxswain, seeing his chance of overhauling the renegades in the short distance to go, called on his stroke to "hit it up," which that individual was nothing loath to do. "Cut them out before they get to the float," cried the coxswain of the First crew. Up went the stroke, and the race was on in earnest. The coaching launch had drifted down toward the bridge on the outgoing tide, before the coach saw what was in progress. He waved his arms, bawled through the megaphone, and gesticulated in an endeavor to stop the wild pace, but neither crew heard, nor wanted to stop if they had heard. This was not a race under instructions. It was only a private scrap and, as such, it stood, for the launch was too far off to overhaul the flying, splashing crews.