But Merriwell was not worrying over the outcome of the race. He knew that a race is not always won by a brilliant start, and that the final stretch is what tests the strength of the swimmer. So while Ward Hammond spurted and increased his lead, Merriwell swam low and easily, with his head well back on his shoulders, and without any unnecessary expenditure of muscle. Craig Carter, who had been seated in a boat beside the landing, now pushed the boat off, and dropping the oars into the rowlocks, prepared to follow the swimmers leisurely, that a boat might be at hand in case of accident. Of course, he was one of Hammond’s most fiery henchmen, and he did not hesitate to show his partiality by shouting encouraging cries to him. “That’s right, Ward! Give full spread to your hands and feet. Gather a little quicker, frog fashion. That’s right! Go it, old man! They can’t any of them beat you! Hurrah for the Blue Mountain boys!” “I hope he’ll fall out of that boat and drown himself,” was Rattleton’s uncharitable wish. “He actually makes me sick!” “His friend hasn’t won the race yet,” said Diamond, studying the swimmers with a critical eye. “Colson is a good swimmer, too, isn’t he? He’s coming right up alongside of Merriwell.” The race was to a stake, set far enough from the shore to test the strength and wind of the swimmers, thence back to the point of starting. Up to this stake and around it Ward Hammond led, with Merriwell second, Colson third, and Matlock closely crowding Colson. When the stake was turned and the swimmers headed shoreward, it was seen that Hammond was fully six yards in the lead. Craig Carter was standing up in his boat, alternately sculling and swinging the oar aloft to give emphasis to his Indian-like yells, and the excitement among the spectators perceptibly increased. “By Jove! I’m afraid Hammond is going to beat Merry!” confessed Bart Hodge, with an uneasy shifting of his feet. “See him spurt! He goes through the water like a torpedo boat!” “I’ll het you my bat—I mean I’ll bet you my hat—that he doesn’t!” averred Rattleton, whose faith in Merriwell’s ability was always supreme. “Now look, will you? Hurrah for Merry! Talk about your torpedo boats! That’s the stuff, Frank! Hooray! hooray! hooray!” Rattleton crowded so near the edge of the landing that he was in danger of tumbling into the water, and there, standing on tiptoe and swinging his cap, he sent his shrill cries ringing across the surface of the lake. Merriwell seemed still to be swimming easily, with his body well under and his head poised lightly on his shoulders, but it was observed that he was greatly increasing his speed. Not in the spurting, jerky manner of Hammond, but with a steady pull, that was bound to tell in the outcome.