"Wait until we—get into a—good swing. Let us pull at—this stroke—for a while," went on Frank, speaking rather jerkily, and whispering every time his head came close to Jerry, in leaning forward to make his stroke. "Watch 'em, and when—you think we can spurt—then give—the word."
"All right," assented the coxswain. He looked over at the Fairview shell, and noted that Roger Barns, the coxswain, was closely regarding the Randall eight.
"They're sizing us up," thought Jerry. "Well, we may not be such a muchness now, but by Hector! When we start in regular training this Fall, If we don't make 'em sit up and notice which side their tea is buttered on I'm a Dutchman, and that's no wallflower at a dance, either!" and Jerry shut his lips firmly and felt delicately of the tiller lines, shifting the rudder slightly to learn that the shell was in good control. She responded to the lightest touch, being indeed a well-built craft and as light as a feather, though with sufficient stiffness—that quality always hard to get in a frail shell.
The two racing machines were now moving swiftly along, being about on even terms. Now and then, seemingly in response to a signal from their coxswain, the Fairview lads would hang back a bit, allowing the Randall shell to creep up.
