erfect form, passed
the stroke up forward with a kick and a bite, handling his oar with a
precision that made the eye of the coach glisten. And when the
nervous little coxswain called for a rousing ten strokes, the shell
seemed fairly to lift out of the water.

In the last mile dash Dr. Nicholls surreptitiously took his
stop-watch from his pocket and timed the sprint. When he replaced
the timepiece, the lines of care which had seamed his face for the
past few days vanished.

"All right, boys. Paddle in. Day after to-morrow we'll hold the
final time-trial. Deacon, be careful; occasionally you clip your
stroke at the finish."

But Deacon didn't mind the admonition. He knew the coach's policy of
not letting a man think he was too good.

"You certainly bucked up that crew to-day, Deacon." Jim Deacon, who
had been lying at full length on the turf at the top of the bluff
watching the shadows creep over the purpling waters of the river,
looked up to see Doane standing over him. His first emotion was one
of triumph. Doane, the son of Cephas Doane, his father's employer,
had definitely noticed him at last. Then the dominant emotion
came--one of sympathy.

"Well, the second crew moved better too."

"Oh, I worked like a dog." Doane laughed. "Of course you know I'm
going to get my place back, if I can."

"Of course." Deacon plucked a blade of grass and placed it in his
mouth. There was rather a constrained silence for a moment.

"I didn't know you came from my city, Deacon. I--Jane Bostwick told
me about you last night."

"I see. I used to know her." Inwardly Deacon cursed his natural
inability to converse easily, partly fearing that Doane would
mistake his reticence for embarrassment in his presence, or on the
other hand set him down as churlish and ill bred.

For his part Doane seemed a bit ill at ease.

"I didn't know, of course, anything Jane told me. If I had, of course,
I'd have looked you up more at the college."

"We're both busy there in our different ways."

Doane stood awkwardly for a moment and then walked away, not knowing
that however he may have felt about the conversation, he had at
least increased his stature in the mind of Jim Deacon.

Next day on the river Junior Doane's desperation at the outset
brought upon his head the criticism of the coach.

"Doane! Doane! You're rushing your slide. Finish out your stroke,
for heaven's sake."

Deacon, watching the oarsman's face, saw it grow rigid, saw