"Now you have it!" shout our fellows.
Blades turns his head for half a second, and cries to his men as he quickens up to his final spurt.
What a shout then rent the air! Our boat no longer crawled up beside the Old Boys, but began to fly.

On, on! Their coxswain seems to be gliding backwards towards me.

In vain they attempt to answer our spurt; they have not the rowing left in them to do it.

Nothing can stop us! In another moment we are abreast, and almost instantly there come such cheers after cheers from the bank that even the dash of the oars was drowned in it.
"Parkhurst's ahead!" "Ah, well rowed!" "Now, Old Boys!" "It's a win!" On, on! What sensation so glorious, so madly exciting, as that of one of the crew of a winning boat within twenty yards of the goal?
I am tempted to shout, to wave my hat, to do something ridiculous, but I set my teeth and sit still, holding my breath.

Four strokes more will do it.