“Halfway!” yelled Rust. “We’ve got a good length on Newbury. Steady now! Hard all the way through! Don’t rush your slide, Two!” Talbot held to the increased stroke, sure that the critical moment of the contest with Newbury was at hand; if he could open water between the boats, he was confident that Newbury would never rally. His men followed him in splendid unison. For Roger the first great weariness had passed. He was rowing mechanically now, putting into his drive all the strength which he thought safe to force from himself, his whole attention concentrated on his oar and his slide and the back of the man before him. He heard the four blasts of the whistle which announced that Bainbridge was leading, but he cared little for that; he was rowing to beat Newbury, and Newbury was behind! “Open water!” exclaimed Billy. “Half a length of open water! I wish I had taken that bet of three to one on Newbury against Westcott’s. Newbury’s out of it for sure.” “Not yet!” said a stifled voice at his elbow. “I’m not giving up yet. They’ll come up on ’em. They’ve got to.” Billy turned to find John Smith at his side, occupying the place of the Harvard captain who had gone aft to his crew. President John’s eyes were fixed upon the Westcott boat in a hostile glare, his hands tightly gripping the rail, his face drawn with suppressed emotion. “Make it up!” answered the unsympathetic Billy. “How are they going to make up two lengths against that crew? Why, the more they try to spurt, the worse they row! Number Three there is about all in now. You can see it yourself.” “Bainbridge will beat ’em anyway,” muttered Smith, fiercely. “Go it, Bainbridge! Kill ’em, Bainbridge!” [Illustration: “GO IT, BAINBRIDGE! KILL ’EM, BAINBRIDGE!”] Billy threw a glance of curiosity at his neighbor’s face and grinned broadly. “Been betting heavy against Westcott’s and feels sore,” he said to himself; but Billy was mistaken. It wasn’t a losing wager that charged that face with venom, but defeat and wounded vanity. President John considered himself a sportsman; in fact he was only a partisan; rabid, narrow, unforgiving. He hated the crew that was vanquishing his own, that was stealing from him the triumph which he had confidently expected and in the prospect of which he had openly gloried. The crews were close to the bridge now. Roger longed for the comfort of its shadow, longed for the word of the coxswain that the end was near. He felt now as he swung forward to his catch that he had but a half-dozen more strokes in his body. To row another hundred yards seemed absolutely impossible.