At the first bend the competitors met the full force of the wind ’gainst tide. The lean bows of the boat threw apart showers of spray, as the knife-like stem cleft the curling waves. It was here that the Nottingham lads found themselves handicapped. Used to pulling in a river, they had never had the opportunity of rowing in a fairly high seaway. Their style, admirable in smooth water, was at a decided disadvantage in this “popple.” More than once “bow” missed his stroke, his blade encountering nothing more resistant than air as the boat rose on the crest of a short, steep wave. “We’re overhauling her all right,” thought Peter. Five lengths ahead the Portsmouth Sea Scouts were leading. Pulling splendidly, they were steadily increasing their lead, when misfortune descended upon them. “Stroke’s” oar broke just above the blade. The lad, falling backwards, temporarily put No. 3 out of action. By the time the latter had recovered and resumed his oar, the boat had dropped to the seventh place. Nevertheless under extremely adverse conditions the lads continued their gallant struggle, the oarless “stroke” sitting up and moving with the rest to preserve the rhythm of the swing. The mark buoy at last! “Back, port! Pull, starboard!” ordered Peter. Round swung the gig, rolling as she swung broadside to the weather-going tide. “Together!” Now came the strenuous part of the whole race—the last lap. The _Kestrels_ were visibly tiring. Even Heavitree’s Adam’s apple was working convulsively, while the veins in his bared arms stood out like whipcord. Talbot, looking utterly blown, was pulling almost mechanically, gasping through his wide open mouth in his efforts to fill his painfully stifled lungs. There was but one boat ahead. That was the Pembroke one. The Welshmen were in a far worse plight than Craddock’s crew. They had let themselves go at the start, and were reaping the consequences; yet they, too, were “sticking it” with the fervid tenacity of their race. For the present Peter dare not call upon his loyal crew for an extra spurt. They were gaining all the time, yet without the final and spectacular burst they would not be able to overlap their rivals. And, of course, the Welshmen would almost certainly respond. Three hundred yards from home the _Kestrel’s_ gig’s bows were level with the Pembroke boat’s stern. The coxswain of the latter could be heard calling to his men for the final effort. It was now Peter’s chance, provided his jaded crew could respond to it. “Whack her up, lads!” he shouted. “Last lap!” Both boats were now in calmer waters. Nobly the _Kestrels_ responded to their coxswain’s call. Blinded with perspiration, with bursting lungs and violently throbbing hearts, aching muscles and blistered palms, they were unconscious of everything but the desire to make that extra spurt. Now they were dead level with the Welshmen. “Keep it up, lads!” yelled Peter.