In appearance he was
the ideal oarsman. And yet----
Deacon, watching the coach, could almost see his mind working. Now
the time had come, the issue clearly defined. Another stroke must be
tried and found not wanting, else the annual eight-oared rowing
classic between those ancient universities Baliol and Shelburne
would be decided before it was rowed.
Deacon flushed as the coach's glittering eyeglasses turned toward him.
It was the big moment of the senior's four years at college. Four
years! And six months of each of those years a galley-slave--on the
machines in the rowing-room of the gymnasium, on the ice-infested
river with the cutting winds of March sweeping free; then the more
genial months with the voice of coach or assistant coach lashing him.
Four years of dogged, unremitting toil with never the reward of a
varsity seat, and now with the great regatta less than a week away,
the big moment, the crown of all he had done.
Words seemed on the verge of the coach's lips. Deacon's eyes
strained upon them as he sat stiffly in his seat. But no words came;
the coach turned away.
"All right," he said spiritlessly. "Paddle back to the float."
The coxswains barked their orders; sixteen oars rattled in their
locks; the glistening shells moved slowly homeward.
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