Had Dick been less
strong in his faith in Dick & Co. he might have gone to pieces
under the nagging.
Bob Hartwell, glancing smilingly back over one shoulder, saw the
Gridley boys working.
"We've got 'em stung, fellows," called the Preston High School
big chief to his crew. "Take it easy, but don't let 'em gain
anything. We won't try to increase the lead until we're on the
last half of the home stretch."
A hundred and fifty yards from the upper buoy Dick passed the
word:
"Now, hump a bit. We want to worry 'em as we get to the buoy.
Make it hot for Preston! One, two, three, four!"
Some of that distance was covered. As Preston rounded the buoy
Hartwell and his crew came face to face with Gridley, about to
round it.
"One, two, three, four!" almost drawled Dick. He had already
passed the signal to his own men, not one of whom obeyed his slow
count, but on the other hand, Preston High School for the space
of about fifteen seconds, slowed to that crawling count.
"Brace up, you dubs! Paddle!" roared Hartwell. "Never mind that
funeral march. Dipperty-dip!"
Preston recovered from its brief trance and shot ahead. But Gridley
was already around the buoy and coming fast.
Half way home from the upper buoy found Preston going strongly,
two and a half lengths ahead of Gridley High School.
"Oh, you, Prescott, get up and run!" came the dismal, desperate
advice from shore.
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