l," he said, presently, addressing the captain, who,
though excited too after his own fashion, was poring determinedly over
his work.

"Well?" asked he, looking up.

"I say, _do_ you think there's any chance of our boat winning?"

The boy asked the question so anxiously that one might have supposed his
whole happiness in life depended on the answer.

"It's very hard to say," said Riddell. "I think we have some chance, at
any rate."

"You did the course in as good time as Parrett's yesterday, didn't you?"
said Wyndham.

"Yes, but we had a better tide," said Riddell.

Wyndham's face clouded, for he knew it was true.

"You _must_ win, I say," said he, almost fiercely.

Riddell smiled.

"I mean to oblige you if I can, for one," said he.

"If they win," said Wyndham, "it'll be--"

But what it would be the youthful enthusiast lacked words to express.

Riddell turned again to his writing.

"Hadn't you better finish your work?" said he.

"Oh, I can't!" exclaimed Wyndham. "Who could work just before the
race?"

So saying, he got up and gathered together his things.

Riddell was sorry for this. He had hoped the boy would stay. Amid all
his fresh duties the new captain had kept his eye on his old friend's
brother, and of late he had seen things which made him uneasy. Wyndham
was on friendly terms again with his two undesirable patrons, and
simultaneously his work in the library and his visits to Riddell's own
study had become less regular. It all meant something, Riddell knew;
and he knew, too, that that something was not any good. He made one
attempt to detain the boy.

"You aren't going?" he said kindly.

"Yes. It's really no use grinding, to-night, Riddell."

"Won't you stop and keep me company, though?" asked the captain.

"You're working," said the boy. "I'll come to-morrow. Good-night."

And he went, leaving Riddell very uncomfortable. Why should he be so
eager to go? Why should he always seem so restless now whenever he was
in that study? Why should he always avoid any reference to--

Ah! here he was back again. A gleam of hope shot through Riddell's
breast as he saw the door open and Wyndham re-enter. Perhaps, after
all, the boy was going to stay and give him a chance. But no, Wyndham
had come back for his knife, which Riddell had borrowed for sharpening a
pencil. That was all he wanted; and having recovered it he departed
quickly.

Riddell spent the rest of that evening in l