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308 toiled more Titanically than these eight rowers. No galley slave, chained to the oar, with the vessel on fire above him, with the shrieks of the dying in his ears, the stench of Greek fire in his nostrils, ever rowed more desperately.

"Row! Row!" screamed Jerry.

"Row! Row!" echoed Roger Barns.

The finish line was but a hundred feet away. Slowly, oh, so slowly, did the Randall boat creep up on her rival.

Now she was past! Another electric thrill went through Jerry.

"Row! Row!" he screamed, and his voice was hoarse. His hands, tense and gripped, were clasped so tightly on the tiller ropes, that afterward they had to loosen them for him. The muscles had gone dead, but he steered with the skill of a veteran.

It grew black before Tom's eyes. He felt that his lungs were bursting. Frank knew that if he dipped the oar in the water again he would not have strength to pull it out.

But, somehow he did!

And then with one last spurt, a spurt that seemed to wrench the very roots of their hearts, a pull that seemed to tear their very muscles loose, the lads in the Randall shell sent their boat over the finish line a winner—a winner by half a length—a winner! They were the eight-oared victors!