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"You see, Senator Clifford," said Tom Andrews,— and he voiced the general opinion,-"you see, we would n't have had a ghost of a show if it had n't been for the 'Stand-by.' Harvard has a veteran crew, but we 've got the captain. He 's all brains and sand. He won't make any errors, and he will keep every man in his shell up to his work for every ounce of muscle there is in him from start to finish."

The day was perfect. The broad expanse of water, unruffled by a breeze, glistened in the sunlight like burnished silver. All things favored a fair trial of strength and skill.

From their quarters, a mile or more above, the rival crews swept down the river, not at speed, but with a good, swinging stroke that started the sweat and limbered their muscles.

In addition to the cockswains they numbered sixteen men, picked from many hundred. For months they had worked to gain strength and endurance. For months they had rowed, at first in the gymnasium tanks, then, when spring came, on the harbor and the river. For weeks they had retired at ten, and had eaten at the training-table. For the time being, like Samson and Hercules, they were men set apart from their fellows, selected to uphold in a brief but agonizing contest the honor of two great universities.

They were greeted with deafening cheers from the "movable grand stand," the long train of platformcars that lined the west bank of the river.

"'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Arvard!" yelled hundreds of Cambridge under-graduates, in perfect time.

"Harvard, Harvard, Harvard!" shouted their thousands of friends.

Distinct as the voice of one man, loud as a peal of thunder, came the answering cry: "Breke-kek-ex koax ko-ax! Breke-kek-ex ko-ax ko-ax! O op, O op, parabalou! Yale!"

"Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! Yale!" shouted thousands who wore the blue.

"Hic, hæc, hoc! Hug-us, hug-us, hug-us! Yum, yum! Smack, smack! Vassar-r-r!" piped a mischievous ventriloquist, as the roar died away.

The boats took their places.

It was the moment of sickening dread that comes before battle, but every man in the crews sat rigid and quiet, ready to fight for the last inch, even when overwrought muscles were thrilling with agony and an instant's respite was relief from supreme torture.

"Are you ready?" There was a quiet response from each boat, and then the crack of a pistol.

At the pistol's flash eight sinewy bodies bent to their work for the glory of the crimson, and eight for the glory of the blue. Harvard started with a magnificent spurt and instantly took the lead. Yale followed with thirty-two long, strong, uniform strokes to the minute. For a mile the distance between the boats did not perceptibly change.

The platform-cars, with their thousands of spectators, kept opposite the rowers, and ever and again cheers burst forth like salvos of artillery: "Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Arvard!" "Breke-kek-ex ko-ax ko-ax! Breke-kek-ex ko-ax ko-ax! O op, O op, parabalou! Yale!" "Har

vard, Harvard, Harvard!" "Yale, Yale, Yale!" The excitement became intense.

Harvard maintained her lead till the second half of the second mile, when she made a spurt, putting her more than a length ahead.

The spurt was good generalship. It seemed to presage easy victory. It disheartened Yale's friends. It set Harvard's wild with enthusiasm. The cheers for Harvard were deafening. The cries for Yale were like a wail of despair. It was a terrible ordeal for a new crew rowing against veterans flushed with victory, an ordeal that nothing but indomitable will, iron discipline, and perfect confidence in a leader could sustain. A momentary discouragement, the least relaxation of effort on the part of a single man, and Yale's chance was hopelessly lost.

It was good generalship when Napoleon hurled his Old Guard to foam itself away against the British squares at Waterloo, for on a hundred battle-fields it had carried all before it; but Englishmen and Scotchmen were there to stay-as conquerors or as corpses.

At the end of the third mile Yale had raised her stroke a trifle and was scarcely a length behind. Both sides cheered frantically.

In the first quarter of the fourth and last mile Yale spurted and began to creep up; but Harvard again quickened, and the gain was lost.

In the last half Harvard began to show the exhausting effect of her tremendous spurts, and her stroke became ragged.

"Our boys have won the race all right," said Har

vard men, "but if there 's sand enough left in those fellows to make a handsome spurt, we won't have much to spare."

"We've still got a show," replied Yale men, "and the Stand-by 'll fight her for all there is in it."

"Now," said the Yale captain to his crew, "a spurt to the finish!

In that low, quiet tone was the fierce joy of conflict and the inspiration of victory. The response came from bare, brown, sinewy arms. Breath was too precious for words. There was no sound save the quick, regular dipping of the spoons, and the rushing of the water, and the wild cheers from the west shore. Under those long, powerful strokes the shell seemed to rise like a flying-fish and fairly leap through the water.

Harvard had made three great spurts, the last in the last two minutes. It was not in flesh and blood to make another so soon. Yale was gaining steadily; then she touched-barely touched-a mass of floating seaweed. It delayed her only an instant, but that instant brought the loss, as it seemed, of her only chance.

The rival crew so regarded it, and rowed with more confidence. The spectators so understood it, and "'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah ! 'Arvard!" burst forth like a peal of thunder.

An expression of ghastly despair flitted over the faces of the Yale crew. "Now!" exclaimed their captain, and his voice, though low, stirred them like a trumpet. The expression of despair vanished. His spirit had recovered full possession of them-the spirit that in the supreme moment counts life nothing, vic

tory everything. There was no flurry. The thirty-six strokes to the minute had the regularity, sweep, and power of the thirty-two.

Seconds passed. The cheering was continuous now, the excitement was so intense. The boats were prow and prow, and the finish was only half a dozen rods

away.

As the Yale cockswain glanced at his captain he saw that his face looked drawn; but the eyes themselves were bright, the teeth were set, the stroke did not falter, and the iron muscles still bent the strong oar like a reed.

A moment later the boats swept past the line, Yale three feet ahead, and her captain fell back into the arms of the man behind him.

The honor of a great university was redeemed. It was worth living for. It was worth dying for.

Smooth-cheeked freshmen, dignified seniors, and gray-haired alumni, wild with excitement, rushed down to the water to watch the crew as it boarded the college launch. Anxiously, tenderly, proudly, the captain was taken aboard.

From the harbor the guns of the yachts thundered their salutes, but louder and longer and wilder than the thunders of the cannon rose the cry from twenty thousand throats: "Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! Yale!"

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