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 oars yet seen in England, other than those above, and make the eighth crew of the best, fastest eight amateurs America has produced.

And now name the winner—if you can. You have more of a problem than you would ever dream of. With all that is said about rowing, and all that is known about it, is it yet an exact science? If it is, which is its exponent—of two of the world's greatest coaches to-day—Mr. Lehmann or Mr. Courtney? Their styles are radically different. Then which is right? But you take those thirty-two mighty minds, let them concentrate on winning that wonderful battle, greater than any peaceful one yet fought on any water; not excluding that between Mnestheus and Cloanthus, and all their famous triremes—get all that intellect, all that force, all that resistless will-power, and fighting-power incarnate, packed into those dainty, glistening racing-shells—thirty-two men with the racing spirit of thirty-two thousand coiled up in their great brains—and name the winner if you can! And would not they love the battle! You could not suit them better. Bismarck on the best horse in Germany, Washington on Ten Broeck, and Andrew Jackson on Lexington, contemporaries in a four-mile dash, would ride like demons. But that section of lightning-rod, Jackson, would win; for, in such a terrible struggle, every ounce of weight would tell on the horse; and Jackson, long as he was, did not weigh much. But in the boats, again, if you can, name the winner. What other men in the world's annals have known, as have these, the countless elements that enter into winning? Especially in winning against masterminds like their own—up to every move on the board, mercilessly exacting of themselves; intuitively knowing the value of discipline, foresight, fortitude; of