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.
As he mentally measured the distance, now, to the finishing line, Dick Prescott's eyes flashed.
"Now, your reserve power, fellows!" he called in a low, tense voice.