"Not yet." Deacon scowled at the tense little coxswain. "I'll do the timing." Chick Seagraves nodded.
Swinging forward to the catch, his chin turned against his shoulder, Deacon studied the rival crew which with the half-mile flags flashing by had attained a lead of some ten feet. Their blades were biting the water hardly fifty feet from the end of his blade, the naked brown bodies moving back and forth in perfect rhythm and with undeniable power registered in the snap of the legs on the stretchers and the pull of the arms. Deacon's eyes swept the face of the Shelburne coxswain; it was composed. He glanced at the stroke. The work, apparently, was costing him nothing.
"They're up to thirty-four," cried Seagraves as the mile flags drew swiftly up.
"They're jockeying us, Chick. We'll show our fire when we get ready. Let 'em rave."
Vaguely there came to Deacon a sound from the river-bank--Shelburne enthusiasts acclaiming a lead of a neat half a length.
"Too much--too much." Deacon shook his head. Either Shelburne was setting out to row her rival down at the start, or else, as Deacon suspected, she was trying to smoke Baliol out, to learn at an early juncture just what mettle was in the rival boat. A game, stout-hearted, confident crew will always do this, it being the part of good racing policy to make a rival know fear as early as possible. And Shelburne believed in herself, beyond any question of doubt.
And whether she was faking, or since Baliol could not afford to let the bid go unanswered, a lead of a quarter of a length at the mile had to be challenged:
"Give 'em ten at thirty-six!" Deacon's voice was thick with gathering effort. "Talk it up, Chick."
From the coxswain's throat issued a machine-gun fusillade of whiplash words.
"Ten, boys! A rouser now. Ten! Come on. One--two--three--four--oh, boy! Are we walking! Five--six--are they anchored over there? Seven--oh, you big brown babies! Eight--Shelburne, good night--nine--wow!--ten!"
Deacon, driving backward and forward with fiery intensity, feeling within him the strength of some huge propulsive machine, was getting his first real thrill of conflict--the thrill not only of actual competition, but of all it meant to him, personally: his father's well-being, his own career--everything was merged in a luminous background of emotion for which that glittering oar he held was the outlet.