"Come on; we'll show 'em what a rudder looks like."
But it was not to be. In three consecutive dashes of a mile each,
the varsity boat moved with such speed as it had not shown all season.
There was life in the boat. Deacon, rowing in perfect form, passed
the stroke up forward with a kick and a bite, handling his oar with a
precision that made the eye of the coach glisten. And when the
nervous little coxswain called for a rousing ten strokes, the shell
seemed fairly to lift out of the water.
In the last mile dash Dr. Nicholls surreptitiously took his
stop-watch from his pocket and timed the sprint. When he replaced
the timepiece, the lines of care which had seamed his face for the
past few days vanished.
"All right, boys. Paddle in. Day after to-morrow we'll hold the
final time-trial. Deacon, be careful; occasionally you clip your
stroke at the finish."
But Deacon didn't mind the admonition. He knew the coach's policy of
not letting a man think he was too good.
"You certainly bucked up that crew to-day, Deacon." Jim Deacon, who
had been lying at full length on the turf at the top of the bluff
watching the shadows creep over the purpling waters of the river,
looked up to see Doane standing over him.
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