"Go it, Larry, go!" cried Hobson. "Give me your foot, and I'll give you a shove!"
"Hi! hi! no foul play back there!" roared Striker. "This race is to be won on its merits. Now, then, for the wind up!" and he renewed his efforts.
But he was almost winded, for the race had been a stiff one from the start, and he was not used to exerting himself in the water. On the other hand, Larry was still fresh, and had taken part in several swimming matches before. The boy renewed his efforts to overtake his opponent, and now, as the yawl drew closer, he slowly but surely crept up.
"See, see! Russell is gaining!" cried Tom Grandon, from the taffrail.
"He'll win out, after all!" echoed the Rev. Martin Wells, who was quite excited. The race made him think of his college days, ten years gone by.
On and on the pair in the water continued to go, until the yawl, rising and falling with the swells was less than fifteen feet away. Striker was still a yard ahead and pushing forward like a blown porpoise. Larry continued to diminish the distance between them.
"Hurry up, Larry, and you'll make it yet!" cried Grandon.
