As soon as the _Kestrel’s_ crew had applied the “dope,” the gig was uprighted and a thorough examination made of her oars and stretchers. Craddock, as coxswain of the boat, meant to leave little to chance, although he was quite aware of the disadvantage of racing in a strange craft without even the opportunity of having a preliminary practice. But, he reflected sagely, there were other crews similarly handicapped. Just before six o’clock fourteen boats faced the starter. By this time the ebb-tide was running strongly against a steady sou’westerly breeze, with the result that farther down the main channel there was quite a sea running. “Back there, No. 5!” shouted the somewhat harassed starter through a megaphone. No. 5’s crew dropped their oars and obediently “toed the line.” They were hefty, bronzed-featured lads from Margate. It was their first race, and in consequence they were a bit excited. “Tough lot, aren’t they?” remarked Heavitree, stroke of the _Kestrel’s_ gig, as he moistened the loom of his oar with salt water. “Eyes on the boat,” cautioned Peter. “Stand by!” The starting gun crashed. Fifty-six backs bent to the first stroke; fifty-six oars dipped almost as one, and the fourteen competing boats leapt forward, the coxswains shouting encouragement to their men. For the first hundred yards the line retained its comparative straightness, but already some of the rowers were splashing unnecessarily, and they lost their “first wind,” and hadn’t begun to find their second. Then five of the boats shot ahead, amongst them the _Kestrel’s_ borrowed gig. Her crew were working with a will and getting every ounce of power out of their backs and legs. They had a style about them, and Peter, as he watched their long, steady, and regular strokes, felt proud of his chums. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Craddock noticed that the Nottingham Sea Scouts’ boat was level on her starboard beam. Her crew, admirably trained, were rowing with the regularity of clockwork. Instinctively, Peter felt that here was a rival to be treated with respect. To port, No. 7—the Pembroke crowd—was forging ahead. The crew were rowing a quicker stroke, but would they last? On the extreme left, No. 14, the Whitby boat, had already established a useful lead. Although losing the advantage of the ebb-tide she was in smoother water close to the bank, but at the first bend that advantage would be lost. Yet, Peter knew, there was little to be judged by position at this stage. It was the stayer, not the spurter, who seemed most likely to lead the procession over the finishing line. He looked at his crew. They were bearing up bravely. Talbot looked a little flustered, but was still rowing strongly. None of them had reached the gasping stage yet, although rivulets of perspiration trickled unhindered down their faces.