From the launch came the signal that Westcott had lost the lead to Newbury. Roger wondered if he were really rowing badly or was just being warned to prevent a slump. He wondered also whether Talbot would spurt or let Newbury go ahead. And while he wondered, toiling at his oar and watching his slide, he felt the stroke quicken and rallied to meet it. And then a new sound reached his ears, the sound of school cheers from the bridge. Again the launch whistled four times. They were ahead again! The cheers were clearer now and close at hand. Roger’s breath was coming hard with every stroke; he got no rest on the returning slide; his legs were weakening, he was tired all over, but not too tired to row; and he drove his protesting muscles as if they were things separate from himself, and he a cruel master lashing them on. As they passed into the shadow of the bridge, the launch sent forth a single long shriek. The sound filled the Westcott bow oar with furious resentment. Was Pete going to let Newbury slip in ahead now, after holding them the whole distance? Why didn’t he spurt? Why didn’t he give his crew a chance to win its proper place? The spirit of battle that surged through Roger’s heart blotted out the consciousness of weariness and feebleness; he yearned for the opportunity to do something more than pull with all his might at the stroke set him. But Pete did not respond to the ardent wish of the bow oar. The race was approaching its end. The launch gave its final signal—one hateful blast. “Ten strokes more!” yelled Rust. “Make it good now. Hard! Hard!” Then Talbot, either to test his crew or to show what he could do if he tried, suddenly “hit her up.” Bow oar met the challenge with a burst of furious energy. He was mad all through. He felt like tearing his outrigger from the side, like driving his stretcher into Eaton’s back. Those ten strokes were the hardest Roger had ever rowed. The boat leaped forward. The lead of three-quarters of a length which Newbury had, grew less with every push of the Westcott oars. “Let her run!” called Rust, and the crew rested. Newbury had won, by a quarter of a length. Roger held himself upright, though breathing heavily. His limbs were in a quiver, his heart was sore against Pete’s cautious policy. They had lost a race that might have been won! Brookfield was splashing along five lengths away, trying hard to avoid the ignominy of being last. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER XXV THE FINAL STRUGGLE PRESIDENT JOHN hurried from the launch to the Newbury crew, who were stiffly disembarking at the side of the float. “A splendid race!” he cried exultantly, as he grasped the hand of the victorious captain; “a splendid race! That’s the way to do the thing,—get the lead in the first half of the course and hold it. And you had plenty of strength in reserve, too, didn’t you?”