Then they came in sight, the three shells, red and shining in the bright sunlight. They seemed to be abreast, throwing out three white V's of light spray as on, on, on they came. Every nerve in Skinny's little body was on edge as he stood near the brow of the precipice trying to identify the salmon colored pennant of the Elks. Then he saw it--yes, he saw it. It was one of the two shells that glided abreast; the other had fallen behind. He could see the form of the rower bent forward and back, the long oars feathering, the slender shell moving nearer, nearer, under the impetus of that steady, increasing leverage. The third shell, manned by Ellis Carway, seemed now quite out of the running. Its heroic Eagle was doing ragged and erratic work, never getting the full benefit of his strokes. In that short course he could never make up what he had lost. But the other two seemed evenly matched. Suddenly Howell Cross's shell, with the blue pennant of his patrol, shot ahead. Skinny trembled, his eyes stared, he quivered with excitement. He might have saved his fears. Howell had his spurt, and having spent his reserve energy, could only maintain his former speed. The time for a spurt is at the end and Holly Hollis knew this. Easily he shot ahead in an excess of effort that would surely carry him past the skiff. He would not have to pause for breath till he could pause for good. Now he was half a length ahead. Now a full length. And then amid a wild chorus of cheers and the waving of hundreds of flags, he swept forward past the skiff. The Eagle of the Elk Patrol had won them the cup and the trip to the Grand Canyon, and the glory of being the banner patrol of Temple Camp. Skinny's patrol. Then something happened which caused Danville Bently to run along the cliff excitedly trying to make out just what the trouble was. There was a sudden change in the tone of the shouting below. He came to a point where he could descend with caution and as he did so, he perceived the dreadful thing that had happened. Hollis had evidently turned his victorious shell quickly so that the tremendous force of its impetus would not carry it against the steep shore (see map) and it had swept into the marsh and capsized. And there he was quite out of reach of it, sinking in the treacherous rank growth. Danville made out that he had tried to swim only to be caught in the mire. From where Danville was descending cautiously the victim looked like only half a boy, the upper half. He seemed standing up right in the swamp. "Do your feet touch?" Danville heard some one call. "Help, help!" was the frantic answer.