And back, the wakes seemed like two ruled marks, so straight they were.
There was no let up of the cheering now.

Back and forth went challenge and reply across the stream, while the watchers on the bridge fairly shook that iron-trussed structure with the fury of their slogans.
As the boats neared the three-quarter buoy it was plain to all who looked that the real race was yet to come.

Hillton suddenly hit up her stroke to thirty-four, to thirty-six, to thirty-eight, and, a bit ragged perhaps, but nevertheless at a beautiful speed, drew up to St.Eustace, shoved her nose a quarter length past, and hung there, despite St.
Eustace's best efforts to shake her off.
Both boats were now straining their uttermost, and from now on to the finish it was to be the stiffest rowing of which each was capable.
Hillton _was_ ragged on the port side, and bow was plainly tuckered.
But St.Eustace also showed signs of wear, and there was an evident disposition the length of the boat to hurry through the stroke.

Joel was straining his eyes on the crimson backs, and West was vainly and unconsciously endeavoring to see through the glasses from the wrong end.
The three-quarter mark swept past the boats, and Hillton still maintained her lead.
The judges' boat, a tiny, saucy naphtha launch, had steamed down to the finish, and now quivered there as though from impatience and excitement, and awaited the victor.

Suddenly there was a groan of dismay from the St.Eustace supporters.