. . "_Shake her up,
there_!" . . . "_Hilda-h_! _Hilda-h_!"--Takia took no outward heed of
the cries. He was staring stolidly ahead, bending to the pulse of the
boat. No outward heed--but '_troke_!--'_troke_! came faster from his
lips. We strained, almost holding the Germans' ensign at level with
our bow pennant.
Loud over the wild yells of the crowd we heard the voice we knew--old
Burke's bull-roar: "Let 'er rip, Taki'! Let 'er rip, bye!"
Takia's eyes gleamed as he sped us up--up--up! '_Troke_ became a yelp
like a wounded dog's. He crouched, standing, in the sternsheets, and
lashed us up to a furious thrash of oars! Still quicker! . . . The
eyes of him glared at each of us, as if daring us to fail! The yelp
became a scream as we drew level--the Germans still at top speed.
"_Up_! _Up_! _Up_!" yells Takia, little yellow devil with a white
froth at his lips! "_Up_! _Up_! _Up_!" swaying unsteadily to meet
the furious urging.
The ring of the German rowlocks deepens--deepens--we see the green bow
at our blades again. Her number two falters--jars--recovers again--and
pulls stubbornly on. Their "shot" is fired! They can do no more!
Done!
And so are we! Takia drops the yoke ropes and leans forward on the
gunwale! Oars jar together! Big Jones bends forward with his mouth
wide--wide! Done!
But not before a hush--a solitary pistol shot--then roar of voices and
shrilling of steamer syrens tell us that the Cup is ours!
IV
A month later there was a stir in the western seaports.
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