be--an outcast. For he had come to his
decision: Just what he would do he did not know. He did not know
that he would not stroke the Baliol varsity. Out of all the welter
of thought and travail had been resolved one dominant idea. His
father came first: there was no evading it. With all the
consequences that would follow the execution of his decision he was
familiar. He had come now to know what Baliol meant to him as a
place not only of education, but a place to be loved, honoured,
revered. He knew what his future might be. But--his father came first.
Arising from the breakfast-table, he spoke to but one man, Junior
Doane.

"Doane," he said, drawing him to one side, "you will row at stroke
this afternoon."

The man stared at him. "Are you crazy, Deacon?"

"No, not crazy. I'm not feeling well; that's all."

"But look here, Deacon--you want to see the coach. You're off your
head or something. Wait here, just a minute." As Doane hurried away
in search of Dr. Nicholls, Deacon turned blindly through the yard
and so out to the main road leading to a picturesque little river
city about nine miles up the stream.

June was at her loveliest in this lovable country with its walled
fields, its serene uplands and glowing pastures, its lush river
meadows and wayside flowers. But of all this Deacon marked nothing
as with head down he tramped along with swift, dogged stride. Up the
river three or four miles farther on was the little city of which he
had so often heard but never seen, the little city of Norton, so
like certain English river-cities according to a veteran Oxford
oarsman who had visited the Baliol quarters the previous season.
Deacon had an interest in strange places; he had an eye for the
picturesque and the colourful. He would wander about the place,
filling his mind with impressions. He had always wanted to go to
Norton; it had seemed like a dream city to him.

He was in fact striding along in the middle of the road when the
horn of a motorcar coming close behind startled him. As he turned,
the vehicle sped up to his side and then stopped with a grinding of
brakes.

Dr. Nicholls, the coach, rose to his full height in the roadster and
glared down at Deacon, while Junior Doane, who had been driving,
stared fixedly over the wheel. The coach's voice was merely a series
of profane roars. He had ample lungs, and the things he said seemed
to echo far and wide. His stentorian anger afforded so material a
contrast to