“Bainbridge only two-thirds of a length ahead!” shouted Rust. In answer Pete bellowed over his shoulder: “Get into it now! Don’t quit!” Roger felt the stroke quicken and mechanically followed. For the first time during the race the remembrance of Pete’s challenge recurred to him. He was worn and weak; his eyes bleared, his head was a dull depressing weight upon his shoulders, every muscle in his body cried aloud for mercy; but his spirit rose in defiance and sent along the quivering nerves a command which the muscles could not disobey. “Only half a length now!” cried Rust, as the boat emerged beyond the bridge. “You can do it, only twelve more!” Talbot lifted his stroke another notch, and Rust counted. At each pull Roger assured himself that he could do one more, and threw into that one all the power that was in him. He could hardly see Eaton’s back as it swayed before him. The race had lost interest for him; he was fighting Talbot, proving that he was no quitter. “Seven—eight,” counted Rust. “Pull! Pull! You’re almost there!” Four more! To Roger those four strokes seemed like four of the labors of Hercules. He could do but one before he broke,—but one more after that. Dizziness came sweeping over him, he gasped hard for breath. One more before he fainted!— “Let her run!” screamed the coxswain. Roger dropped, but caught himself by a supreme effort as Pete turned his dripping, heaving shoulder to look at his crew. Over the stooping bodies of Three and Two he saw the upright form of Bow, smiled faintly, and lurched heavily forward, while Rust splashed water into his face. Behind him Bow slumped down upon his oar. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER XXVI CONCLUSION “WESTCOTT’S by six feet!” announced Mr. Henderson, judge at the finish, as the crowd pressed about him to learn the official verdict. Mac and his men burst forth in a howl of joy. Trask threw up his arms and yelled the news across the water to the crew of the quinquereme, who went wild with excitement. Their historic boat, which had escaped the missiles of war unscathed, very nearly succumbed to the perils of peace. The _Veritas_, swinging round to the float after the laggard crews had crept in, found the cutter shoved directly into its path through the efforts of two lads who continued to chop the water vehemently while they yelled, as oblivious to the direction they were taking as stokers in the hold of a steamship to the course laid down by the navigator. The Varsity manager, who was steering the launch, backed his engine and saved the cutter for another race day. Meantime Billy was scribbling notes on a block of yellow paper, Deering was smiling in dignified exultation among his crew, and President John, his face white with ill-suppressed rage, was reviling to two curious reporters the folly of the Newbury oarsmen who had thrown away a sure victory.