"Doane," he said, drawing him to one side, "you will row at stroke
this afternoon."
The man stared at him. "Are you crazy, Deacon?"
"No, not crazy. I'm not feeling well; that's all."
"But look here, Deacon--you want to see the coach. You're off your
head or something. Wait here, just a minute." As Doane hurried away
in search of Dr. Nicholls, Deacon turned blindly through the yard
and so out to the main road leading to a picturesque little river
city about nine miles up the stream.
June was at her loveliest in this lovable country with its walled
fields, its serene uplands and glowing pastures, its lush river
meadows and wayside flowers. But of all this Deacon marked nothing
as with head down he tramped along with swift, dogged stride. Up the
river three or four miles farther on was the little city of which he
had so often heard but never seen, the little city of Norton, so
like certain English river-cities according to a veteran Oxford
oarsman who had visited the Baliol quarters the previous season.
Deacon had an interest in strange places; he had an eye for the
picturesque and the colourful. He would wander about the place,
filling his mind with impressions. He had always wanted to go to
Norton; it had seemed like a dream city to him.
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