coach placed his hand upon Deacon's arm, gently.

"Come Jim," he said.

The afternoon had gone silently on. Jim Deacon sat on the veranda of
the crew-quarters, his eyes fixed upon the river. Some of the crew
were trying to read; others lounged about talking in low voices.
Occasionally the referee's launch would appear off the float, the
official exchanging some words with the coach while the oarsmen
watched eagerly. Then the launch would turn and disappear.

"Too rough yet, boys. They're going to postpone another hour." Twice
had the coach brought this word to the group of pent-up young men
who in a manner of speaking were sharing the emotions of the
condemned awaiting the executioner's summons. Would the up-river
breeze never subside and give them conditions that would be
satisfactory to the meticulous referee?

Deacon lurched heavily in his seat.

"What difference does it make so long as the shells won't sink?" he
asked.

"We're ready," replied Dick Rollins. "It's Shelburne holding things
up; she wants smooth water, of course. It suits me, though. Things
will soften up by sunset."

"Sunset!" Deacon scowled at the western skies. "Well, sunset isn't
so far off as it was."

Word came, as a matter of fact, shortly after five o'clock. The coach,
with solemn face, came up to the cottage, bringing the summons.
After that for a little while Jim Deacon passed through a series of
vague impressions rather than living experience. There was the swift
changing of clothes in the cavernous boathouse, the bearing of the
boat high overhead to the edge of the float, the splash as it was
lowered into the water. Mechanically he leaned forward to lace the
stretcher-shoes, letting the handle of his oar rest against his
stomach; mechanically he tried to slide, tested the oarlock.

Then some one gripped the blade of his oar, pushing gently outward.
The shell floated gingerly out into the stream.

"Starboard oars, paddle." Responsive to the coxswain's sharp command
Deacon plied his blade, and in the act there came to him clarity of
perception. He was out here to win, to win not only for Baliol, but
for himself, for his father. There could be no thought of not winning;
the imminence of the supreme test had served to fill him with the
consciousness of indomitable strength, to thrill his muscles with
the call for tremendous action.

As the shell swept around a point of land, a volume of sound rolled
across the waters. Out of the c