"And so will the other fellows," Tom surmised. "They're not going
at anything like their pace as yet."
For a quarter of a mile the canoes held the same relative position.
"Now, liven up," Dick called softly. "One, two, three, four!
One, two, three, four!"
Catching the rhythm, Dick & Co. put in some good strokes, their
paddling becoming faster and stronger. A length and a half of
the interval was closed up.
"Porky-poo!" ordered Hartwell.
Answering, the Preston High School boys paddled as though fury
now possessed them. They held the pace, too.
"Hit it up hard, now," Dick commanded. "One, two, three, four!"
Never had Gridley responded more nobly on any field of sport or
other contest than now. The paddles flew, their wet blades gleaming
in the air, only to disappear under the water again. Each recovery
was swift, prompt rhythmic!
But Hartwell's crew was also showing the stuff of which it was
made.
"Stop paddling---back water!" shouted Hartwell finally.
The "Pathfinder" lay on the water, motionless, only two yards
from the shore on which stood the blasted pines.
At that same instant the Gridley High School "Scalp-hunter" was
a trifle more than seven lengths astern.
"That was good and warming," smiled Big Chief Dick, as the second
canoe came up.
"Yah, yah, yah!" retorted the Preston High School boys, betraying
their delight in derisive grins.
"Where is that wonderful, all-conquering way you were telling
us about?" chaffed Hartwell.
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