The men behind him do not at first get into the altered swing, and for a moment or two the rowing is scrambling, and our boat rolls unsteadily, a spectacle hailed with increased joy by the partisans of the Old Boys' boat.
"Steady now!" cries Blades, over his shoulder, and next moment the boat rights itself; the four oars dip and feather simultaneously.

I, sitting in the stern, can feel the swing as of one man, and the boat dashes forward like a machine.

Our fellows on the banks mark the change and cheer tremendously.
"Well spurted, Parkhurst!" "Put it on now!" "You're gaining!" "Rowed indeed!" Such were the cries which, as I heard them, set my blood tingling with excitement.
It was a long time before any perceptible gain was noticeable from where I sat.

The Old Boys had taken advantage of their lead to come across into our water, and all I could see of them was the blades of their oars on in front, which rose and fell swiftly and with a regular beat.
Still the shout from the bank was, "You're gaining!" and presently I saw their boat edging off again into their own water, by which I concluded we had pulled up sufficiently to make this necessary to avoid a foul.
Our men pulled splendidly.

Cool, determined, and plucky, each rowed his best, his eyes fixed on the back of the man before him, keeping perfect time, and pulling each stroke through with terrible energy.