The next contest was that between some students of Pornell and Dan Baxter and his cronies. Both crews got away in good shape, and soon the bully’s crew took the lead.
Half the race had been rowed, and still the Baxter crew kept the lead.
“Looks as if they might win after all,” said Pepper.
“Well, I hope they do—for the honor of Putnam Hall,” put in Jack, promptly.
“That’s right—Putnam Hall against all comers!” cried Andy.
The race was almost done and Baxter’s crew still had a lead of two lengths. They were rowing with all their might, but their strength was almost gone.
“Pull, fellows!” cried the leader of the opponents. And pull they did until the two boats were bow to bow.
The last cry was correct, and once again the Pornell followers yelled and cheered at the top of their lungs. Dan Baxter’s crew was much crestfallen and rowed to the Putnam Hall boathouse looking glum enough.
“Now here come some more victims!” cried a Pornell enthusiast, as Dale and his crew appeared.
“Boys, we must win!” whispered Dale, with fire in his eyes. “We have simply got to do it. If we don’t those Pornell fellows will never get done crowing over us.”
“We’ll win!” said Pepper, firmly. “Oh, we’ve got to do it! Row for all you are worth!”
The two boats were soon at the starting-point, and the rules of the race were explained.
Crack! went a pistol, and as the thin smoke floated over the lake the two crews took the water with their blades and were off.
Each crew rowed a swift, clear stroke, and for the first half-mile the two boats kept side by side.
“No! the Pornell boat is crawling ahead!”
“This is Pornell’s race too! Boys, this is our winning day!”
“Oh, Pornell is going to win,” growled Reff Ritter. “Jack Ruddy and those chaps can’t row.”
“They can row better than you can,” put in Bart Conners.
“Bah!” grumbled Ritter, and walked to another point of the boathouse float.
At the end of the first mile Pornell was slightly in advance. Seeing this, Dale increased the stroke, and at a mile and a quarter the boats were once again side by side.
“Pull, Pornell, pull!” was the yell from the rival academy lads, and the Pornell boys did pull, the perspiration streaming down the faces of Roy Bock and his cronies.
“Don’t talk!” came shortly from Dale. “Pull!”