But Hartwell, glancing back,
called:
"Mumbleby hoptop!"
Whatever that signal meant the Preston boys were now paddling
a stronger and slightly swifter stroke. Dick, too, increased
the stroke.
Despite it all, however, Preston was now securing more and more
of a lead by almost imperceptible gains. Dave Darrin, in the
bow seat of the war canoe, eyed the water interval between the
two canoes with a frowning glance.
"More steam!" Dick urged. As the Gridley canoe went creeping
up on the rival craft, Hartwell muttered another of his ridiculous
code signals.
"Preston hasn't let itself out yet, and we're next door to panting
already," Tom Reade told himself, with a sinking heart. "We were
fools to enter as a school crew without more practice!"
At this time Dick Prescott was the only one in the war canoe who
serenely ignored all doubts. Of course he couldn't be sure that
he would win. In fact, all the chances appeared against him.
But the absurd habit, as it seemed to others, of feeling that
Gridley could not be beaten, was strong upon him.
More than half way to the upper buoy Preston High School led by
more than two lengths.
"Get on, Gridley! Get on! Do something!" came the distant yet
distinct yells from shore. Many spectators, in carriages, or
on bicycles, were following the rival crews.
"Prescott, what ails you?" came a wailing cry from shore.
There were other discouraging calls, too.
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