"Pull!" shouted Frank and Tony in the same breath.

Fortunately every oarsman in both boats hit the stroke exactly, and away
leaped the gallant barks.

As Frank had deemed it probable, the Butterfly shot a length ahead of
her rival after pulling a few strokes; but though the noise of the oars
informed his crew of their relative positions, not an eye was turned
from him, not a muscle yielded in the face of the dispiriting fact, and
not a member quickened his stroke in order to retrieve the lost ground.
Even Tim Bunker, who was supposed to have more feeling in regard to the
race than the others, maintained an admirable self-possession. However
much the hearts of the crew beat with agitation, they were outwardly as
cool as though the Butterfly had been a mile behind them.

It is true, some of the Zephyrs, as they continued to gaze at Frank's
calm and immovable features, wondered that he did not quicken the
stroke; but no one for an instant lost confidence in him. "Frank knew
what he was about." This was the sentiment that prevailed, and each
member looked out for himself, leaving all the rest to him.

The Butterflies were quickening their stroke every moment, and
consequently were continuing to increase the distance between the two
boats. Every muscle was strained to its utmost tension. Every particle
of strength was laid out, until Tony, fearful that some of the weaker
ones might "make a slip," dared require no more of them. But they were
already more than two boats' lengths ahead of their rival, and he had
everything to hope.

Still the Zephyr pulled that same steady stroke. As yet she had made no