And now the moment was come which Talbot’s crew had been both longing for and dreading. As he helped carry the boat out, Roger was conscious of a shrinking—a nervous, unsettling fear that his strength and skill might not be equal to the test before him. He glanced at Pete to see if he too felt the depressing influence, but the captain’s face showed only a deeper line of determination about the mouth, and his voice as he gave the necessary orders sounded calm and reassuring. The unnatural tension was at its height as Roger sat with arms outstretched for the catch, waiting for the coxswain’s word. It clung to him still during the first strokes, as the boat got under way from the float. Then gradually the familiar movement absorbed his attention, and the grip on his heart loosened. The harmony of the swaying bodies, the monotonous creak of the slides on their rollers, the wash of the water against the sides, the “feel” of the boat beneath him as it drove steadily forward—all contributed to wake in him the old confidence and exhilaration. As the crew passed under the bridge on their way to the starting line, the cheers from admirers above descended in a loud blare, but by this time he was beyond the need of such encouragement. He knew that the boat was going well, he exulted in the conviction that he had his form and his strength, and could row that day as well as any other. The crews got off well. The dozen quick starting strokes put the nose of the Westcott boat six feet ahead of Newbury. Brookfield High and Boston Latin were still farther behind. Roger was a little dilatory in obeying the starting signal, and as a result, in his efforts to follow his leader, he rowed his first strokes too much with his arms; but by the time Pete lengthened out, he was in form again, his legs thrusting strongly against the stretcher, his blade catching the water sharply and hard, his pull straight through to the end of the long stroke. He bore in mind the last warning he had received from the coach, and gave particular attention to getting his hands away quickly, keeping in the middle of the boat and avoiding the abrupt return technically known as “rushing the slide.” He saw nothing but the back of the man in front of him, heard nothing but the exhortations of the coxswain, until four blasts of the whistle close at hand assured him that the Westcott boat was leading. Soon after this he began to feel tired, and wondered vaguely if he were not pulling too hard, but with the second toot of the whistle this sense of weariness yielded somewhat, and a glimpse caught over Eaton’s shoulder of Brookfield High, lengths behind, gave him courage. “Halfway!” called Rust. “Keep it up now, Newbury’s gaining. Watch your form, Bow!”