must be studying them.  Johnson swore.  Cully said:  “Bang goes the Cup!” But White rose and started furiously to recover the lost ground, thrashing the water with his limbs.  Bravely done!  How the building cheered, as his long arms swung distances behind them!  But he failed.  Atwood, swimming with coolness, kept and increased the advantage; and, accompanied by a din from his housemates and an all-embracing smile from Upton, touched the rope beneath the diving-mat full two yards in front.  Over his head dived Southwell Primus, while Johnson, in an agony, yelled to White to hurry his shapeless stumps.  Moles, with a last tremendous stretch, touched the rope, and Johnson plunged splendidly to his work.  I took up my position on the mat and helped White to flounder out.

“Ray,” were his first words, “it’s up to you now.  I’m awfully sorry I muddled it, but you’ll make it good.  I know you will—­you must.  I shall weep if we go down.”

“I’ll try,” I said.

Meanwhile Johnson, as is often the case with the weakest man, outstripped the most hazardous faith.  To the joy of Bramhall he matched Southwell Primus with a yard for his yard.  But, even so, his pace couldn’t eat up the lost ground; and the Erasmus man touched home still two yards in front of the Bramhallite.  In flew Lancelot, my opponent; and, with the coming of Johnson, it would be my turn.  The Bramhallites, in a burst of new hope, shouted sarcastically:  “Go it, Lancelot.  Ray’s coming.  He’s just coming.”  I got the spring in my toes, watched carefully to see Johnson touch the rope beneath me, and then, to the greatest shout of our supporters, dived into the beloved element.

They told me (but probably it was in their enthusiasm) that it was the best and longest racing-dive I had ever done; that, remaining almost parallel to the surface, I just pierced the water as a knife pierces cheese.  All I know is that at the grasp of the cool water every symptom of nerves left me:  and, with my face beneath the surface, and the water rushing past my ears, half shutting out a frenzied uproar, I raced confidently for the beam.  The position of Lancelot I cared not to know.  My one aim was to cover the sixty yards in record time; and, so doing, to pass him.  On I shot, feeling that my arms were devouring the course; and, some five strokes sooner than I expected, became conscious that I was near the beam.  In an overarm reach I scraped it with my finger-tips.  Swinging round, I swam madly back.  Extending myself to the utmost, I felt as if every stroke was swifter than its predecessor.  Now my breath grew shorter and my limbs began to stiffen; but all this proved a source of speed, for, in a spirit of defiance of nature, I whipped arms and legs into even faster movement; it was my brain against my body.  Then there came into view the rope, which I touched with a reach.  Making no attempt to grasp it, for I seemed to be travelling too rapidly, I saw the atmosphere darken with the shadow of Cully passing over my head, and crashed head-first into the end of the baths.  Not stunned, for the cold water refreshed me, I turned immediately to see if I had really got home before Lancelot.  He was still in the water, three yards from the rope.