Delicate Cedar

I

HE sat quietly, wedging himself against the shallow ledge behind; his feet, the narrowness of the boat apart, pressed the light crosspiece; his knees showed above the low gunwale. Gripping the sides he stretched the tiller lines taut to the rudder.

He held his body poised — he seemed almost a part of the boat.

The men facing him, glancing at that slight, collected figure, unconsciously steadied.

He felt again the thrill of the ‘lift’ in the boat — the eight blades gripped the water; the slender shell seemed to rise clear, swing swiftly through the air, then launch herself smoothly, to run cleanly while the men swung toward him. Clear-eyed, browned faces, wide shoulders, firm limbs — a stirring harmony of grace and strength, and the lilt of the boat as they swept her along.

His eyes grew bright and he swallowed hard as he sensed the true beauty of it all.

‘E-e-easy.’

His voice was husky as he gave the word — the oars flicked the surface as they slid gently to rest.

‘Well rowed — you ‘re well together and she’s steady as a church.’ Just encouragement now to quiet their nerves — the weeks of sarcasm and abuse were past.

He smiled at them; but Harry Brooks, — nearest him in the boat, as in life, — seeing the strain in his eyes, gripped his oar hard and closed his lips more firmly.

Sitting so quietly while they rested, memories crowded upon him.

Old days at Oxford — old crews he’d steered, and the suffocating excitement of close finishes. He thought of his father, an old ‘Blue,’ struggling to conceal disappointment when he himself, the only son, had turned out too light to row. Hoping to please him he had joined the old college boat-club. How well he remembered the first time he went down there, rather disinterested, and then his father’s name had strangely affected him — small gold letters on those unpretentious panels of the past. What a select company they were, what years of hard work and clean living they represented! — theirs the highest place in all that wide field of fitness and fair play. Impulsively he had turned to Harry — captain that year — and given his name for trial as coxswain. With Harry’s quick glance toward the panels, and his own quiet ‘My father,’ had begun one of those rare friendships lasting steadily through the years.

Leaving college, they had availed themselves of a privilege open only to ‘Old Blues,’ and joined Leander — the pink hatband and tie being badges of fame and guaranties of deference. But there was little chance to row — Leander, with its pick of both great universities, was too strong for competition and of too good sportsmanship to walk away with races and cups.

And then had come this race, the most important event in the history of English rowing. He’d read of it months before, little thinking he was to be drawn into it. The sleepy old seaport town was holding an International Exhibition and the King had presented a gold cup, to be rowed for in open competition by crews from any part of the world.

Several weeks ago the papers had begun to announce the various arrivals and to criticize their form. The Oxford and Cambridge eights were early in training on the course; Eton, Harrow, other great public schools entered; crack provincial clubs; a crew from Canada, one from Australia, and, for the first time in British waters, a German crew, wearing the colors of the Berlin Rowing Club — the Leander of Germany.

He remembered how interested he had been in the Germans — he’d heard so much of their style and often wondered how it would compare with the English. Well, the test was at hand — he and Harry must arrange to go down for the few days’ racing; the Regatta would be the event of years. . . .

The sound of cheering came from round the bend, and the band playing the German National Anthem. Their opponents were passing the enclosure. How generously the crowd applauded!

‘All right, let’s get on a bit.’ Distinctly he gave the words that started them: —

‘Half-forward.

‘ Are you ready?

‘Paddle!’

Half a stroke without a slide, a short quick stroke, and then, reaching fully out, they took up the old steady swing.

‘Take it easy; listen for the click together. That’s it — no hurry now.’

He thought of that evening when Harry had come in from the Club, a letter in his hand and the old familiar light in his eye. ‘Jim, they want us to go afloat once more. Marlowe and Ravenscroft have written to the Committee about these chaps from Berlin — it appears their form is practically perfect, and the fellows on the spot seem to think it’s almost a sure thing that they ‘ll be too good for any of the boats down there now. They say the only hope of keeping the cup in England is for us to get together a picked crowd and have a try to stop them. Extr’o’din’ry decent of the Committee — they ‘ve asked me to stroke.’

Marlowe, he had known, was coaching Cambridge, and Ravenscroft, Eton — both Leander men. Certainly they should know what they were talking about.

And then Harry, unable to conceal his eagerness, had flung Jim’s own share at him. ‘I told ‘em that I’d stroke only on condition you coxed; and I pointed out the short time remaining for us to train and get together — barely six weeks. They realize that, but they say it’s the only chance to save the cup.’

’Look ahead there! Look ahead!’ He shouted his warning at a boatful of people coming out from the bank. ‘Blast these boats!’ he thought. ‘Why can’t they keep ‘em off the course!’

And the past six weeks, the old life again — the hard work and keen zest of physical fitness, for he always went into strict training with the crew. His own old scull brought down, he rowed hard between the morning and evening practice. He experienced once more the glow of perfect health. The hard exercise in the open, that feeling at night of pleasant relaxation without fatigue, the long hours of deep sleep, and the sparkling freshness of the early mornings. And the joy of the old companionship, the men, pick of the past five years — Harry, perhaps the finest stroke of modern times, with his great length and stirring rhythm, setting now a slightly slower pace than of old — the weight of the men behind him compelled that; Bow and Seven from their old Oxford boat, and every man picked for experience, for strength, and above all for his ability to stay. No crew could hope, in that short time, to equal the German precision and perfect coördination of effort. The Committee had wisely decided that superior stamina was the only chance.

II

They rounded the bend just above the enclosure and he looked down the course ahead, stretching away into the distance, edged by strings of closely moored yachts and innumerable tightly clustering boats. The enclosure and the banks farther down and across the river were densely packed with countless thousands.

The cheers came at them in a great wave, sending a shiver down his spine. And then, purposely, he made ready to commit a flagrant breach of the unwritten rules of rowing. Steering close in under the enclosure wall, near the Judge’s box, he came abreast of two very particular chairs — and deliberately turned his head.

His father and Irene —

His father sitting, hat in hand, with the gentle confiding smile Jim knew and loved so well — and there was time to see the proud affection and the trust.

And Irene — the soft gray eyes were shining, the sweet mouth was slightly parted as though a little breathless; a small hand clasped his father’s.

For a moment he forgot the cheers and the crowds and the tense excited gayety of the scene about him — he was far off in a world of love and trust, a quiet land of peace and great content where the sunbeams of kindness and truth played steadily alike upon life’s smooth lawns and stony lanes. There was melody in his heart and mist in his eyes.

A slight lurch recalled him guiltily, but in the low-voiced ‘All right, Jim,’ as Harry’s head swung close, he read forgiveness and understanding.

Smoothly they slid past the waving, cheering throngs — ease and beauty of form, rhythm, power, unselfishness, and the delicate boat gliding swiftly through the still water. Breaths caught and eyes grew moist watching those clean powerful young forms moving so gracefully together.

‘E-e-easy.’

Jim remembered that a request — to Englishmen a command — had reached them as they left their boathouse: they were to pause on their way down at a graceful old-world yacht moored off the enclosure.

‘Stroke and Seven, hold her up.’

Quickly the blades turned to backwater, and as they drew neatly to rest alongside he heard Harry’s hurried whisper: ‘Jim, take off your cap.’

They lay mirrored in the yacht’s glossy side; the brasses gleamed speckless under snowy awnings; and suddenly a hush seemed to fall while a simple English gentleman, with whitetopped yachting cap and neatly trimmed beard, spoke quiet words of encouragement and praise. And in that moment it came to them that through him Englishmen everywhere were speaking — trusting them to do their best.

Jim could feel the tremble through the boat.

The quiet voice ceased.

With cap crushed against the gunwale, his words rang clear: —

‘Half-forward.

‘Are you ready?

‘Paddle!’

And as the breeze struck cool on his hot face he caught the strains of ‘Rule Britannia’ before the cheers burst over them.

Once clear of the long, densely packed enclosure and away from the gayly decked yachts and swarming boats, he rested them again.

No one spoke.

His thoughts turned back to the evenings he and Harry had strolled under the trees watching the Berlin crew at practice. And what a crew they had seemed — they might all have been joined together by steel connecting rods, so perfect was their uniformity. Tall men they were, with long backs and arms that reached far out — though perhaps a little under weight. Their style differed from the English in one allimportant particular — they finished their stroke with bodies laid far back in the boat; and although, it might be argued, this gave them the advantage of a longer stroke, on the other hand the recovery cost great effort and, if they could be closely pressed over a long course, might well sway the balance. Perfect as they appeared and a joy to watch, could Leander outstay them?

Harry was telling him something: ‘There’s the old Powder Quay abreast of us. Remember, Jim — unless we’re level writh them here we’ll have to spurt and chance something breaking.’

‘I know, Harry—but we’ll have them by then.’ He glanced toward the bank, where an old gray-stone powderhouse jutted into the river — it was the last landmark in their plan for the race, and they’d pass it just before reaching the enclosure for the final stretch.

They paddled on down the course, now being cleared for the great struggle. Ahead was the tall flagstaff on the south bank — about the halfway mark.

A half-submerged log drifted past. His heart pounded as he thought of the risks — just such a log in their course (with eight men swinging in front he had small chance of seeing it), or a broken oar, or a slide that jammed — He jerked his thoughts from the consequences and ‘easied’ them again.

‘Do you fellows know that Ben sat up with the boat all night? He told me that when we brought her in yesterday he went over every bolt and stretcher and slide, and he was afraid to leave her since.’ They leaned down, pulling and testing straps and stretchers, and Jim thought again of their old boatman’s final advice: ‘Misther Harry and Misther Jim, sir, for God’s sake mind the start and don’t let them “dozen” at all. In all me thirty years with the Club I never had such a time to keep straps an’ stretchers in a boat. Keep it long and steady and strong from the start, Misther Harry, and remember that the lads behind you can row all day. You ‘re the most powerful crew I ever see and I’ve seen a few in me time. Maybe you’re not so pretty as them foreigners, an’ they nearly lying on their backs in the boat, but you’ve got the guts, and good luck and God bless you!’

Marlowe and Ravenscroft had been right, as the preliminary heats in the last few days had proved. Berlin and themselves, in opposite halves of the draw, had not been extended; they had accounted for their opponents without turning a hair. In fact, in their own heat against Harrow, Six had broken his stretcher in a dozen, but the seven men had easily outdistanced their opponents with bow-side pulling against the rudder and Six doing little more than mark time. But this mishap had served to emphasize their fear of what might happen in the spurts.

Harry turned round to face the men back of him. ‘ Listen, boys, just a word before we get down to the start where the Berlin chaps and the starter’s launch and all the rest of them are. We’ve gone over it together often enough, but I want to tell you just once more what I’m going to do. Start steady; don’t jerk and jump at it. If you do, something ‘ll carry away. They’ll go ahead of us a bit at once; I know that — we can’t help it. I’ve watched them carefully, and they can row thirty-eight — I rather think they can do forty when they’re fresh. We can’t — we ‘re too heavy; and so they ‘ll get the start of us, but I doubt if they can row thirty-eight for long. We’ll start steady — now for the Lord’s sake think of that word and in all the excitement don’t forget and plunge. We’ll start steady, and then I’ll strike about thirty-four and we’ve got to make every single stroke tell — hard and firm with all you know — and we’ve got to hold that for the whole course. I’ve got a watch on my stretcher and I ‘ll count our strokes, and Jim’s is tied to his shoe — he’ll count Berlin’s. We can tell how we hold them at the different rates and if we have to dozen in the end — well, we’ll dozen and chance something cracking. But now mind the start, and then plug every stroke in as though it were the last. There’s the Castle ahead now — that’s our quarterdistance mark; the Germans seem to be waiting for us, so let’s get on down.’

The river widened out. They drew still farther from the crowds and the noise, and Jim felt the steadier swing as their nerves quieted after the ordeal of the enclosure.

They paddled past the German crew, resting under the old Castle wall, and then the stake boats at the start were plainly visible.

Looking astern, Harry spoke: ‘The Germans are coming on, Jim. “Easy ” us so we can take a last look at them.’

The Berlin crew made a pretty picture as they paddled easily along — the straight slender backs with the blackand-white hoops swaying in a perfect line, in uniformity almost unbelievable.

‘Oh! Well rowed, sirs! Well rowed!’ broke from Harry. ‘Come on, you chaps, give ‘em a clap!’ and the German coxswain looked over, smiling, and raised his cap. But that finish — so far back with the difficult, laborious recovery; to the English eye surely a mistake.

Another spell of steady paddling brought them level with the stake boats.

‘ Paddle, Bow and Three; hold her up, Stroke and Six.’ Slowly the fragile sixty feet of delicate cedar swung round, pointing her keen stem up the long course. ‘Easy, Stroke and Six; paddle on, Bow and Two.’ Gradually he drew her level with the line, then backed until the man in the stake boat could grasp their rudder, holding them in position.

Below the Castle the river widened again and the stake boats were moored in midstream. The starter’s launch hovered astern and the press boat layinshore.

The Berlin crew was turning.

The breeze was going down with the sun; the air felt warm and heavy — it seemed hard to breathe. The tide was full in and slack, the surface smooth as a mountain lake on a still day.

Up beyond the finish lay the old town. Jim could distinguish the masts of the ships moored along the quays, and the graceful towers of the cathedral stood darkly against the western sky. On the northern bank the densely wooded hillside rose sharply, studded here and there with fine old houses. He could see the corner of the roof and the terrace of Ardmore, where Irene was staying. On the opposite shore an unbroken line of beeches and chestnuts bordered the river path from the Castle to the enclosure; and shining dully the course stretched far ahead — a narrowing lane of polished gun-metal.

III

Partly because the river at the start was broad, but also perhaps because the crowds were tensely still, straining to catch the start, a silence seemed to shut them in. He could hear the German slides, the guttural orders of their coxswain, and the talk in the starter’s launch. The men were peeling off sweaters and mufflers, cramming them under their feet. The muscles in Seven’s thigh were vibrating.

He saw the gray pinched faces, the excited eyes, that expression of endurance strained almost to the breakingpoint. Hell! he wished they’d start them. The Germans seemed to be in position — he saw the starter’s launch coming up between them. His throat was dry; he had a feeling in the pit of his stomach like that you experience if you stand in the bow of a steamer when she dips into the trough of a sea. He moistened his lips. ‘Remember — don’t jerk the start. Just before the gun goes think of the word “steady.”’

Her head was falling off a little.

‘Paddle a stroke, Bow.

‘E-e-easy.’

She was straight again.

The starter spoke through his megaphone: ‘Gentlemen.’ Good heavens, how slowly he talked! And they knew what he was going to say, anyway. ‘Gentlemen — in case of a false start I shall fire two shots in rapid succession, and thereupon both crews will cease rowing and return to the stake boats for a fresh start.’

Now she was falling off the other way.

‘Paddle a stroke, Two.’

Jim was watching his line.

‘E-e-easy.’

Again the starter: ‘You both appear to be straight now. I shall say “Are you ready?” once, and if I receive no reply I shall fire the gun.’

Another heart-holding pause. It seemed as if a tight, hot band was clamped about his forehead; again he could feel the tremble through the boat. She was straight on her course now; why the hell did n’t he start them? What —

‘Are you ready?’

The crash of the beginning — a jerk like a car started in high gear, as the boat leaped forward — creaking and groaning of straps and stretchers. For an instant he sat in a confused world of bending oars and breathless strain; and then, gathering way, they lifted her off together — the cruel tension was over. Ah! the relief to be rowing — he almost laughed. Harry was once more setting his splendid powerful swinging stroke and the men behind were with him — the grayness left the faces. He looked into steady determined eyes alight with confidence as they felt their power and realized that they were well together. He called the time and marked the rhythm — there was grim purpose in their slashing drive.

And then, glancing toward the other boat, he barely concealed a start — he’d known the Germans would spring into the lead at once, but he was hardly prepared for the lead they were establishing. Already he’d lost sight of their cox’s side-face. In the first minute they’d shot their rudder to Leander’s bow.

‘Count strokes,’ jerked Harry as he swung forward.

Glancing at his watch, Jim counted Berlin’s strokes — they rowed twenty in half a minute.

Harry looked up from his stretcher. ‘Thirty-four — how many are they doing?’

‘Forty.’

The German boat drew farther ahead. There was a length of clear water between them and they were passing the Castle — he could feel the wash strike the shell. Leander rowed in the broken water of the boat ahead, but their watermanship was too clever to be flurried. Automatically they feathered higher; and if the beginning grew less firm, yet they were finely together and lifting her grandly.

But the Berlin crew still drew away.

‘Shall I quicken?’ Harry had lost the sound and feel of the other boat. ‘How far are they?’

Jim saw in Harry’s face the mystified startled expression that accompanies the unexpected and alarming — like the swimmer, believing he can stand, when suddenly he realizes he is beyond his depth.

And then, just as clearly, he read relief and confidence, and on the instant he knew that responsibility was no longer divided. Harry settled wholeheartedly to his stroke and rhythm, the decisions left entirely in Jim’s hands.

He peered ahead. ‘Length and a half—maybe a bit more. No, Harry, don’t quicken yet; hold it to thirtyfour. I’m going to count again.’

Desperate doubt pressed upon him. Berlin was two clear lengths ahead — a terrible lead. Should he tell Harry to dozen and risk an accident? Suppose the Germans held that lead to the Powder Quay, could they possibly catch them then?

There was a ringing in his ears, and a tingling, prickling sensation in his hands and feet. He seemed enveloped in sound — the swish and click of the slides, the creak of leather, and the hiss of the blades as they dug foaming circles in the water. He forced a smile for the men to see if they glanced at him. ‘Well rowed, well rowed!’ he shouted. ‘Keep it hard — every stroke.’ Then, glancing again at his watch, he counted the German strokes — they’d dropped to thirty-six, but they were close upon the flagstaff, the halfway mark.

Two lengths apart they swept up the narrowing river, and the dull confused racket from the banks began to beat upon them. A man in a car, using a huge megaphone, forced his voice across: ‘Leander, for God’s sake come on! Swing out and put your hearts into it! Come on, Leander!’ There was a note of apprehension in the cries.

A sinking feeling assailed him; his breath caught; should he dozen now? Ought he to have dozened before? And then he studied the men; they were fresh as when they started and rowing superbly — the steady, spirited swing forward, the unhesitating beginning, the great lifting pull through, and the magnificent finish with bodies only just beyond the perpendicular — all one splendid movement. Then he looked carefully ahead at the Germans. They were no farther away — Leander was at last beginning to hold them. Desperately his resolve was taken. He realized that the critical moment had come and he’d stick to the plan they ‘d made, for a few minutes more anyway.

But the race was half over — landmarks fell astern as the boats rushed up the course. Every half-minute — every twenty strokes — cruelly shortened their time to cut down the lead. He was one great ache of anxiety; it seemed to him that their chance was slipping swiftly away and, even as the thoughts churned in his head, the Powder Quay loomed clearer.

God! if only he could be rowing; but to sit there still in the midst of it all, with his whole soul crying for effort, and more effort — in the agony of his sensations he longed to close his eyes, to shut it all away. The crisis was upon them.

He counted again. ‘Thirty-six, Harry, and we’re holding them now — going to count again.’

If there was no change after this count he must call for a dozen without a second’s delay — they’d have to chance everything else.

Still thirty-six; he looked up and — yes, there was no doubt about it — the German cox was closer to him! Leander, still holding the powerful slashing thirty-four, was gaining at last! A swelling roar from the banks confirmed him — they were creeping up, gradually but surely cutting off the feet that separated the boats.

‘Well rowed, well rowed!’ he shouted with all his might. ‘We’ve gained a length! We’re almost on them! Stick it, stick it! Oh! Well done.’ They caught the unmistakable note of relief, and unconsciously the strokes drove harder. He could feel his heart pounding. Their bow was overlapping, and now he was close enough to see the men in the Berlin boat — Stroke’s face was drawn and strained and his mouth was open. Jim heard their cox counting, calling a dozen. Again he counted — thirty-eight. A fine plucky spurt. Berlin drew ahead perceptibly; but as the effort ceased Leander commenced to edge up. The distance lessened and lessened, and now the bow men in the Leander boat were conscious of the German stern; out of the corners of their eyes they could see the white shower of spray above the rudder, and the water was no longer broken. Experienced oars that they were, they at once took advantage of the smooth surface; they feathered lower, the beginning grew firmer. Now Jim could see the German faces clearly. He saw the worried, agonized expressions, the paleness of dismay, and then he realized that their perfection of style was gone — Stroke’s head jerked loosely, Seven was swinging out of line, and Four’s back was hooped. They were beginning to splash and the boat rolled between the strokes. He longed to stand up and shout the good news into the splendidly composed faces before him.

Then the German cox called on his men for what Jim knew might well be the deciding spurt, and they responded grandly with everything they had. Gathering themselves together by a superb effort, they regained their form — they quickened incredibly again and for eight or ten strokes they struck close to forty. It was inspiring, and for a space Jim held his breath; but although Harry did n’t quicken, Leander was conscious of the German effort. They could hear the German cox counting and instinctively they replied. They gripped the water and tugged the stroke through. Their jaws were shut, and Jim felt something inexorable in their determination not to let the other boat get away again.

The peak of the spurt moved Berlin slowly forward, and then with straining eagerness Jim saw that Leander was holding them. The boats hung together. The Germans were striking thirty-seven or thirty-eight to Leander’s thirty-four, but could n’t quite break away. Then the Berlin stroke once more put forth a mighty gasping effort; but Leander stuck steadily alongside, and Jim realized that although the German rate was quicker their stroke was getting shorter. The men, recovering with a cruel effort, were diving forward after their hands; they were too exhausted to reach far out. Their steadiness and uniformity were gone — their form was cracking. The boat was rolling, and their greatest effort was surely over.

Steadily, relentlessly, the Leander boat forged alongside; the men had a power and grip now not to be denied. A great swelling roar crashed upon them — the crowd had realized what was happening. The suspense had been terrific, and pent-up feelings sought release.

The two boats drove toward the raging turmoil of the enclosure. Jim yelled his joy and relief; but the men knew. The Germans were almost broad alongside now, and with every stroke each man in the Leander boat was conscious that they were creeping past. The Germans tried another spurt, but this time Leander stuck to them solidly. Harry, at thirty-four, was now holding Berlin’s thirty-eight and smiling broadly into Jim’s eyes.

Side by side they shot past the Powder Quay, and then Leander moved smoothly and powerfully foot by foot into the lead. They retained their steady rate of striking, but whether through the contagion of the moment, or the sight of the Germans dropping away, Jim was conscious of an even mightier lift in the boat, and the Berlin crew slid astern.

He looked at the men ahead of him and his eyes smarted — every face wore a smile. With life and balance in their swing their pace was steadily increasing. Old Ben was right; apparently they could row thirty-four all day.

The shattering uproar of the enclosure broke over them — a seething mass of overwrought humanity. The Germans were a length, two lengths, astern; and, taking Leander’s wash, were rolling and splashing, all too plainly done. Leander was sweeping toward the line. The race was over, and then — a frightful thing happened.

A boat with holiday-makers had somehow drifted loose from the swarm under the bank, and her occupants, in their flustered endeavors to get clear, had managed to lay her squarely across Leander’s course.

Jim felt his heart turn over. Great heavens! Which side should he try to pass? If he tried to steer between them and the enclosure they might make for the same bank, and if he swung for the other shore they were quite as likely to head that way too.

The choice, once made, would be final; there would be no time to reconsider. Even were the boat to remain stationary it was doubtful whether he had time to steer clear, for a racing eight is almost as slow to turn as an ocean liner, and in the intervening distance he could swing only slightly off his course.

With nerve-shattering suddenness he was jerked from glowing relief to grueling anxiety, and he had only an instant to decide.

Were they to be smashed practically on the finishing-line with the German crew rowed out and lengths astern?

IV

‘Oh, look! The King is speaking to them.’

Irene’s fingers tightened. ‘And did you see Jim turn his head as they passed? I saw the boat roll. He should n’t have done that — really.’

Jim’s father smiled gently down into the sweet face at his shoulder. ‘Who could blame him, Irene?’

He handed her the powerful fieldglasses and she focused them on the yacht. ‘I wonder what he’s saying? He’s speaking so quietly and they look so pleased and happy.’ And then, as the pink-tipped blades began to swing and sweep down the enclosure, they found themselves cheering with the rest, full-hearted, rich cheers — their King, their Crew, their England.

Irene’s eyes were very moist.

She looked down the old river — the densely massed throngs could n’t hide its peaceful, mellow beauty; yet there were more people there that day than had ever watched a boat-race. The long enclosure was packed solid. How thankful she felt that Jim had been able to get chairs in the front row. The soft coloring of summer dresses, the gay hatbands and blazers, the deep cool green of the trees and lawn — how clean, how fresh, how colorful the setting for a sport that seemed almost worthy!

Time dragged as they paddled to the start. Everyone was on edge. The rowing men around them were all anxious — she could hear snatches of the conversation : —

‘Yes, yes, of course they’re far the finest material, but they have n’t had time to perfect their form together. Those German fellows now are the most perfect . . .’

‘If only they don’t break anything. They’re such powerful chaps, I’m afraid something’ll crack.’

‘ Berlin can row six strokes faster — that’ll give ‘em the best of the start. The question is, can Leander catch them ? ‘

Behind her a huge man with a Leander hatband was talking to himself as he gazed down the course through his glasses.

A girl near by sat rolling and rolling a tiny handkerchief.

A few seats away a man kept trying to dry the palms of his hands.

It seemed a long wait.

And then all around she began to hear the short nervous exclamations. Men had their glasses focused; they spoke from behind raised elbows, half to themselves.

‘ Leander’s turning — they ‘re almost at the stake boat.’

‘There’s Berlin getting into position now.’

‘The starter’s launch is between them.’

In the enclosure and away down the river there was a silence. The crowds seemed suddenly set, their attention riveted on the start, nerves tightly drawn. If, perhaps, a girl laughed aloud, it was almost as if she’d laughed in church. The tenseness made you almost hold your breath — you could feel your heart beating all over you. A puff of blue smoke, a splash of oars, and a murmur like a huge sigh as thousands voiced, ‘They’re off!’

Irene stood on her chair, her hand on Jim’s father’s shoulder. The gray head and the fair one were close together.

‘Germany’s leading!’ ‘Germany’s leading!’ came from every side. The boats grew clearer every moment and there was strained uneasiness in the voices.

Irene felt hot, then she shivered. She was finding it harder and harder to stand still. She strained to judge the distance between the boats.

‘Berlin looks to me to be too far ahead for comfort; nearly two lengths, I think.’ She caught the hollow uneasiness in Jim’s father’s voice — and the same note sounded all about her.

The crews were abreast of the flagstaff now. It was easy to follow their position by the pandemonium on the bank as they passed.

‘My God! Germany wins! Germany wins! They’re leading by lengths clear!’ She heard the hoarse flat tones on every hand; her white teeth gripped her lip. And behind her the big man, with voice almost gone and staring eyes, kept repeating one word: ‘Leander! Leander! Leander!’

‘Irene,’ — Jim’s father was looking through his glasses, — ‘I notice that Berlin seems to be splashing a bit, and I think Leander is gaining a little — the race is n’t over yet.’ Her heart bounded, and then suddenly from all sides corroboration came: ‘Leander is gaining!' ‘Leander!’ ‘Come on, Leander! ‘

They were approaching the Powder Quay now and everyone could see the details of the struggle.

The enclosure seethed — spectators shouted their thoughts.

‘Oh! Look at Berlin dozen! Well rowed, by Gad.’

‘Why does n’t Leander dozen? They are hitting the same rate all through. If they’d only dozen they’d leave ‘em standing.’

‘Leander’s pulling up fast. Look at the way they’re reaching out to it — and old Harry’s swing! Oh! well rowed, well rowed — they ‘re cleaner than the Germans now.’

And then came Berlin’s mighty effort. The crowd saw their stroke pull them together, they saw the men brace and recover their form, they saw the pace quicken incredibly — it was a breathless, speechless moment. They saw the German boat commence to pull away and hearts stood still; and then — and then — somehow Leander, lengthening out and driving terrifically, stopped the gain. They hung fast on the German quarter. Under their eyes the crowd saw the big moment of the race; suddenly they realized that every man in the Leander boat had gathered all his body and soul into one overpowering determination to stick to the Germans and to rip every stroke through harder and yet harder.

And gradually Leander began ever so slowly to gain, and in that moment of supreme effort the crowd in the enclosure, in its aching desire to push the boat to the front, went with them. All down the lines men and women were swaying, and they swayed in time with Harry’s stroke; hands were clenched and muscles were braced; they tried to get the Leander boat ahead as a man will try to get his long putt into the hole by squirming behind it on the green.

And then Leander drew level — started to pass.

‘Leander!’ ‘Leander!’ People were jumping up and down, pushing against each other. They were laughing, crying, shouting.

‘Leander leads!’ ‘Leander wins!’ And now Leander cleanly, beautifully swung away into the lead.

The suffocating, pounding, breathless relief!

‘Leander!’ ‘Leander!’ ‘Leander!’ The whole scene melted and fused into one mighty intoxicating roar. They were tearing down the enclosure a length ahead and gaining at every stroke; and then — oh my God, that boat!

V

Jim faced his ultimate trial calmly. The unhappy boatload were struggling to get off the course, and quickly his decision was taken: he would steer straight for them; then whichever way they went he’d have a chance to clear. Leander streaked toward them at frightful speed, for the men were moving now as if inspired and their pace was terrific. Great heavens! Could he get past? The boat was turned now and edging back toward the enclosure, and Jim saw that he could swing the shell herself clear on the outside; but would the oars escape?

He strained ahead judging the distance. No, they’d be on it too soon. He had a flash of broken oars, of men knocked backward — and then inspiration came. Coolly he formed his plan. But how make the men hear him? He could n’t even make Harry hear in such a storm of sound; and for the success of his throw every man must hear. And then the Fates favored him. When the crowd caught sight of the boat, and suddenly realized that disaster after all seemed imminent, an appalled hush fell over them.

Instantly Jim seized his one Godgiven opportunity. Putting every vital spark that was in him into his voice he yelled to the men: —

‘Boat ahead! Can clear it if you lie back on stroke as we pass! I’ll raise my arm at beginning of stroke, stay back as far as you can at finish! When I lower arm come forward!

‘Now be ready!’

He was judging his distance.

‘E-e-easy!’ and his arm went up.

They had heard him.

Every man lay back on his slide, the handle of his oar pressed to his chest and the blade sloped inward toward the shell’s side.

He held his breath.

A click — Bow’s oar just grazed the boat as they shot past.

Down came Jim’s arm. ‘Forward!’ he shouted, and together the men recovered. They recaptured the rhythm — you would have thought they had rehearsed the manœuvre. A dozen strokes and they crossed the line, three clear lengths ahead of the laboring German crew.

A raging tempest broke over the river. Sirens of steamers and motorboats joined the deafening clamor of the cars ashore; a hundred thousand frenzied people cheered until it seemed as if they had not cheered before — and in the midst of it all eight quiet happy men sat seemingly unmoved.

As soon as Jim could make them understand he started them, and once again they picked up their splendid swinging thirty-four. Then all at once the crowd were on their feet and hats were off, for the strains of the band had reached them. Gradually the thousands took it up: ‘Send him victorious, happy and glorious,’ and then in one mighty, stirring wave — ‘God Save Our King.’

On the bridge of the yacht the slight bearded figure stood calmly, and in the enclosure, near the two very particular chairs, the fair head nestled close beside the gray.