The spectators noticed this, and their clamor increased. One solemn-looking man jumped to the top of a tall stump and capered like a schoolboy, while a couple of Glendale’s severest old maids, whom nobody supposed could be moved to any show of emotion by such a scene, were actually seen to hug each other and shed tears. Inch by inch, foot by foot, and yard by yard, Frank gained on his opponent and bitter enemy. His head drew alongside of Hammond’s thrashing heels, forged up to Hammond’s side, came up to Hammond’s shoulder and neck, then passed him. Hammond gave his antagonist a frightened glance, and tried to swim faster, seeking to regain his lost ground by another spurt. But he had seriously winded himself, and he found the feat impossible. And still the crowd yelled, and whooped, and fluttered handkerchiefs, and thumped the benches. Craig Carter had long ceased his insane antics. His face wore a look of anxiety. Suddenly, as the swimmers were drawing past a point that jutted out into the lake, a dog sprang into the water and paddled toward them. It was Craig Carter’s spaniel. It recognized him as he sat in the boat, and was anxious to join him. The boat was beyond the swimmers, and the dog, in attempting to reach it, swam against Merriwell, and almost lost him his position. Frank lifted himself and gave the spaniel a heavy shove, which caused it to sink beneath the surface. The sight threw Craig Carter into a rage. He was already in a desperate mood, and now he seemed to become furiously insane. Merriwell was still in the lead, and again swimming. White and panting, Carter rose to his feet, lifted an oar with both hands and struck at Frank. It was a cowardly blow, and brought cries of “Shame!” from those who witnessed it. But it did not reach Frank. He dived like a flash, and the oar struck harmlessly on the water. When Frank came up, he was seen to be swimming neck and neck with Ward Hammond, and the goal not a dozen yards away. Then pandemonium again broke loose on the shore. Inch by inch, and foot by foot, Frank again drew ahead of his antagonist. The crowd yelled like mad. A dozen men crowded to the water’s edge to take him by the hand, for they saw that he was to be the winner. In vain Ward Hammond threshed and flailed. His wind and strength were gone. Merriwell reached the landing three yards in the lead, and was immediately drawn out on the boards. Then, all wet as he was, he was hoisted to the shoulders of his admirers—to the shoulders of men who loved pluck and fair play—and borne around the boathouse, while they bellowed at the top of their lungs: “See, the conquering hero comes!” After that there were exhibitions of fancy diving and swimming by Frank Merriwell and others, which were not taken part in by the disgruntled Hammond, however, and by only a few of his intimate friends. Thus the swimming ended, to the entire satisfaction of those who had waited so long and so patiently for its beginning.