For I wanted to row this race, old
boy. I--I----"
Doane's voice faltered. "But I can't; that's all. Baliol needs a
better man--needs you. As for you, you've no right to consider
anything else. You go in--and win."
"Win!" Jim Deacon stood in the road, rigid, his voice falling to a
whisper. "Win!" Into his eyes came a vacant expression. For a moment
the group stood in the middle of the road as though transfixed. Then
the coach placed his hand upon Deacon's arm, gently.
"Come Jim," he said.
The afternoon had gone silently on. Jim Deacon sat on the veranda of
the crew-quarters, his eyes fixed upon the river. Some of the crew
were trying to read; others lounged about talking in low voices.
Occasionally the referee's launch would appear off the float, the
official exchanging some words with the coach while the oarsmen
watched eagerly. Then the launch would turn and disappear.
"Too rough yet, boys. They're going to postpone another hour." Twice
had the coach brought this word to the group of pent-up young men
who in a manner of speaking were sharing the emotions of the
condemned awaiting the executioner's summons. Would the up-river
breeze never subside and give them conditions that would be
satisfactory to the meticulous referee?
Deacon lurched heavily in his seat.
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