I
want to talk to you." Linking his arm through Deacon's, he set out
through the yard toward the quaint old road with its little cluster
of farm cottages and rolling stone-walled meadow-land bathed in the
light of the setting sun.
"Jim, old boy, you're a queer sort of a chap, and--and--the fact is,
the situation will be a bit ticklish. You know what it means for a
fellow to be thrown out of his seat just before a race upon which he
has been counting heart and soul."
"I don't know. I can imagine."
"You see, it's Doane. You know about his father----"
"I know all about his father," was the reply.
"Eh?" Rollins stared at him, then smiled. "I suppose every rowing
man at Baliol does. But you don't know as much as I do. On the quiet,
he's the man who gave us the new boathouse last year. He's our best
spender. He was an old varsity oar himself."
"Sure, I know."
"That's the reason the situation is delicate. Frankly, Jim, Doc
Nicholls and the rest of us would have liked to see Junior Doane
come through. I think you get what I mean. He's a senior; he's my
best friend."
"He stroked the boat last year."
"Yes, and Shelburne beat us. Naturally he wants to get back at that
crowd."
"But he can't--not if he strokes the boat, Rollins.
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