The coach knew it too. That was the reason his jaws were set,
his eyes vacant. At length he shook his head.
"Not good, boys--not good." His voice was gentle, though usually he
was a rip-roaring mentor. "Varsity, you weren't rowing. That's the
answer--not rowing together. What's the matter, eh?"
"I thought, Dr. Nicholls, that the rhythm was very good----"
The coach interrupted Rollins, the captain, with a gesture.
"Oh, rhythm! Yes, you row prettily enough. You look well. I should
hope so, at this time of the season. But you're not shoving the boat
fast; you don't pick up and get her moving. You're leaking power
somewhere; as a matter of fact, I suspect you're not putting the
power in. I know you're not. Ashburton, didn't that lowering of your
seat fix you? Well, then,"--as the young man nodded affirmatively--
"how about your stretcher, Innis? Does it suit you now?"
As Innis nodded, signifying that it did, Deacon saw the coach's eyes
turn to Doane, who sat at stroke of the varsity.
"Now," muttered the stroke of the second varsity, his eyes gleaming,
"we'll hear something."
"Doane, is there anything the trouble with you? You're feeling well,
aren't you?"
"Yes sir. Sure!" The boy flushed. Tall, straight, handsome he sat in
the boat, fingering the oar-handle nervously.
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