Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed

CAPTAIN OF THE CREW

BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.

Each Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth, $1.50.

  For Yardley.
  Finkler’s Field. ($1.25.)
  Winning His “Y.”
  The New Boy at Hilltop.
  Double Play.
  Forward Pass!
  The Spirit of the School.
  Four in Camp.
  Four Afoot.
  Four Afloat.
  The Arrival of Jimpson.
  Behind the Line.
  Captain of the Crew.
  For the Honor of the School.
  The Half-Back.
  On Your Mark.
  Weatherby’s Inning.

D. APPLETON & COMPANY, NEW YORK.

[Illustration: “Your promise!” he cried. “Quick!”]

                          CAPTAIN OF THE CREW

                                  By

                          RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

                 Author of For the Honor of the School
                           and The Half-Back

                     _Illustrated by C. M. Relyea_

                          NEW YORK AND LONDON
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
                                 1912

                           Copyright, 1901,
                      By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

INTRODUCTION

In this, as in the two preceding volumes of the series--The Half-Back
and For the Honor of the School--an attempt is made to show that
athletics rightly indulged in is beneficial to the average boy and is
an aid rather than a detriment to study. In it, too, as in the previous
books, a plea is made for honesty and simplicity in sports. There is
a tendency in this country to-day to give too great an importance to
athletics--to take it much too seriously--and it is this tendency that
should be guarded against, especially among school and college youths.
When athletics ceases to be a pleasure and becomes a pursuit it should
no longer have a place in school or college life.

Many inquiries have been received as to whether Hillton Academy really
exists. It doesn’t. It is, instead, a composite of several schools
that the author knows of, and is not unlike any one of a half dozen
institutions which are yearly turning out hundreds of honest, manly
American boys, stronger, sturdier, and more self-reliant for just such
trials and struggles as in the present volume fall to the lot of Dick
Hope.

To those readers who have followed the varying fortunes of Joel March,
Outfield West, Wayne Gordon, and their companions, this book is
gratefully dedicated by

                                                            THE AUTHOR.

  PHILADELPHIA, _June 19, 1901_.

CONTENTS

 CHAPTER                               PAGE
      I.--THE BOY ON THE BOX              1
     II.--INTRODUCING DICK HOPE          11
    III.--’IS ’IGHNESS                   20
     IV.--IN THE GYM                     31
      V.--THE INDOOR MEETING             42
     VI.--THE RELAY RACE                 53
    VII.--TREVOR’S VICTORY               62
   VIII.--CANDIDATES FOR THE CREW        70
     IX.--THE HOCKEY MATCH               77
      X.--BUYING AN ICE-YACHT            92
     XI.--ADVENTURES OF A BULL PUP      106
    XII.--MUGGINS IS EXPELLED           115
   XIII.--THE VOYAGE OF THE SLEET       124
    XIV.--DICK TELLS HIS STORY          133
     XV.--IN THE ROWING-ROOM            142
    XVI.--A DECLARATION OF WAR          155
   XVII.--IN THE BOAT                   166
  XVIII.--DICK SURRENDERS               179
    XIX.--DEFIES THE LAW                191
     XX.--AND EXTORTS A PROMISE         204
    XXI.--A DISAPPOINTING HERO          214
   XXII.--TAYLOR ACCEPTS DEFEAT         224
  XXIII.--PROSPECTS OF VICTORY          231
   XXIV.--STEWART’S REVENGE             238
    XXV.--“ARE YOU READY? GO!”          248
   XXVI.--AT THE MILE                   257
  XXVII.--AT THE FINISH                 265
 XXVIII.--TREVOR IS COMFORTED           273

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

                                                        FACING
                                                          PAGE
  “Your promise!” he cried. “Quick!”    _Frontispiece_
  Plan of Hillton, N. Y.                                    24
  On the last lap.                                          50
  A winner by ten yards.                                    90
  “Stand by the ship!” he muttered.                        132
  A declaration of war.                                    156
  The only way by which he could aid.                      262

CAPTAIN OF THE CREW

CHAPTER I

THE BOY ON THE BOX

“Hillton! Hillton!”

The brakeman winked solemnly at the group of boys in the end seats,
withdrew his head, slammed the door and crossed the swaying platforms
to make a similar announcement to the occupants of the car ahead. From
the left side of the train passengers caught a glimpse of a broad
expanse of meadow upon which tiny flecks of red flared dully in the
winter sunshine; of a distant grand stand, bleak and desolate, against
whose northern shoulder a drift of snow snuggled as though seeking
protection from its enemy the sun; of two pairs of goal-posts gravely
watching each other from opposite ends of a long field; of a bit of
country road, a slowly rising hill, a little army of leafless elms,
and, last of all, crowning a promontory below which the frozen Hudson
sparkled, a group of old red brick buildings, elbowing each other
with friendly rivalry in an endeavor to gain the post of honor and to
be first seen of the outside world that traveled by train. That was
Hillton Academy.

There was a long warning shriek from the engine, echoed back by the
wooded slope of Mount Adam; a momentary reverberating roar as the train
crossed the little viaduct; the whistle of air brakes; and then, as the
train came to a stop, a babel of boys’ voices. Some twenty youths of
assorted ages and sizes, laden with every description of luggage, from
golf bags and valises down to boxes of figs and caramels purchased from
the train-boy and still uneaten, pushed and scrambled their way to the
station platform. The last trunk was slid from the baggage car, and the
conductor, portly and jovial, sang “All aboard!” and waved a smiling
good-by to the boys.

“Good-by, Pop! See you later!” “Don’t forget that anti-fat, Pop!” And
then, when the train had gained speed, a slim junior danced along the
platform waving a bit of pasteboard exultingly under the conductor’s
nose and just out of his reach: “Hey, Pop! You didn’t get my ticket!
Stop the train! Stop the train!” An old joke this, that never failed of
applause. The conductor shook his fist in simulated wrath, and the next
instant, with a farewell shriek of the whistle, the train was lost to
sight.

Beside the platform waited the coach, from the box of which “Old Joe,”
the driver, smiled a toothless welcome. Each year held three red-letter
days for “Old Joe,” namely, the days preceding the commencement of the
three school terms, when the students, refreshed by recess or vacation,
returned in merry troops to Hillton--noisy, mischievous, vexing, but
ever admirable to the old stage-driver--and taxed the capacity of the
coach to the utmost, and “Old Joe’s” patience to the limit. This was
the first of the red-letter days of the present year, which was as yet
but forty-eight hours old, and all day long the boys who had been so
fortunate as to return to their homes for the Christmas recess had been
piling from the trains to the stage and from the stage to the steps
of Academy Building. And “Old Joe,” who loved the excitement of it
all, and worshiped everything, animate or inanimate, that belonged to
Hillton, was in his glory.

“Now, then, you young terrors, get aboard here. Can’t wait all
afternoon for you. This ain’t no ’commodating train, and----”

“Hello, Joe, old chap; how’s your appetite?” “Still able to sit up and
take your meals, Joe?” “Say, fellows, Old Joe’s looking younger every
day.” “Give me a hand up, Joe, and I’ll show you how to drive those old
plugs of yours.” “Please, Joe, you said I could sit on the box with you
this trip, don’t you remember?”

“Have to be next time, youngster; seat’s full a’ready. How do, Mister
Hope? Scramble out o’ here, sir, an’ give Mister Hope your seat. Oh, is
that you, Mister Nesbitt? Well----”

“No, I’ll sit back here,” answered the boy addressed as Hope. “I can
jump off quicker when we upset.”

“Hark to that,” growled the driver in pretended anger; “an’ me
forty-two years on this road an’ never no accident yet. All aboard
there! No, ye don’t, sir; no more room atop. Trunks’ll go up next trip,
sir. All right now. _Tlk! Get ap!_”

The two stout grays, known popularly as “Spring Halt” and “Spavin,”
settled into their collars, and the big stage, swaying comfortably on
its leather springs, lumbered around the corner into Station Road.
From the interior of the coach, where twelve youths had managed to
pack themselves into a space designed to hold but nine, floated out a
wild medley of shouts and laughter. On top, two boys had secured the
much-coveted places beside the driver, while on the seat behind three
others were perched. When the little stone station had been left the
boy who occupied the other end of the driver’s seat, and whom “Old Joe”
had called “Mister Nesbitt,” leaned across the intervening youth and
addressed the driver:

“Now, Joe, let’s have the lines, old chap, and I’ll show you a bit of
fancy driving that’ll open your eyes. Come now, like a nice old Joe.”

“Now, don’t be askin’ for the reins, Mister Nesbitt, sir. You know it’s
agin the rules for the boys to drive.”

“What! Oh, rot, Joe! I never heard of such a rule. Did you, Williams?”

“Never,” replied the third occupant of the box. “Joe dreamed it.”

“Of course you did, Joe. Come on, now; just let me have them to the
corner there. Don’t be a duffer, man. Why, I can drive a pair bang up.”
“Old Joe” cast a deeply suspicious glance at the youth--and was lost.
Trevor Nesbitt assumed a look of angelic innocence and sweetness and
pleaded so eloquently with his blue eyes that the driver grudgingly
relinquished the lines.

“Mind ye now, Mister Nesbitt, just to the corner you said.”

“Meaning around it, Joe, of course,” replied Nesbitt as he adjusted
the lines knowingly between his gloved fingers. “Come, Spavin, cheer
up, old laddie!” Williams, who had been holding the long-lashed whip,
now handed it to Nesbitt, who sent the lash swirling over his head,
and with a quick movement snapped it loudly a few inches from Spavin’s
head. The result was instantaneous. The off horse snorted loudly and
leaped forward, and the other followed suit. “Old Joe” snatched at the
reins, but Nesbitt held them out of reach.

“Don’t whip ’em, sir,” cried the old man, “please don’t whip ’em; they
ain’t used to it, sir.” Nesbitt laughed gaily.

“Don’t you worry, Joe, I’ll not hurt them. But we can’t put on side,
old chap, unless we just touch them up a bit.”

_Crack_ went the long lash again.

For several years the grays had traveled the road from station to
school and thence to the Eagle Tavern without other persuasion than
a cheery chirp or a sharp whistle from “Old Joe,” or, upon rare
occasions, a half-hearted snap of the whip in no startling proximity
to their ears. To-day there was plainly something wrong, and so, after
a moment of bewildered consideration, they broke into a long ungainly
gallop, to the joy of the boy with the reins and to the terror of “Old
Joe.”

“By Jove, Williams, this is something like, eh?” Nesbitt sat up
straight on the seat, tightened the lines and grinned delightedly at
his companion. “Old Joe” was pleading excitedly for the whip.

“Please, sir, give me the whip now. I’m afeared for you to have it. You
might hit ’em, sir, accidental, an’ there’s no telling what they’d do.
Mister Williams, sir, just you hand it to me. _Stop him!_” But he had
spoken too late. Nesbitt brought the lash down smartly on the broad
back of the off horse, and the gallop changed to a plunging run, the
coach swaying awkwardly from side to side. “Old Joe” reached forward
desperately to wrest the lines from the boy, but Williams interfered.

“Hands off, Joe,” cried Nesbitt, “or you’ll have us over. Keep him
quiet, Williams.”

From inside the stage came a babel of shouts, the exclamations of alarm
half drowned by the noise of the beating hoofs and the protesting
creaks of the leather springs. The horses with heads down, frightened
at length by the unwonted use of the whip, galloped madly. Nesbitt,
smiling and cool, sat straight and handled the lines with skill, which
at any other time would have won loud commendation from “Old Joe.” But
just at present that worthy was too terrorized to appreciate aught
but the fact that the grays were apparently running away. He had a
frightful vision of an overturned coach, of mangled bodies, and of
everlasting disgrace. Yet he recognized the fact that to take the lines
away from Nesbitt by force, even had such a thing been possible, would
be the surest way to bring about the very catastrophe he dreaded. And
then he glanced ahead down the frozen road and saw the sharp turn but a
short distance away.

The three youths on the seat behind had been watching affairs at first
with amusement and now with apprehension. The boy in the center frowned
and turned to one of his companions.

“Who is that chap?” he asked in a low voice.

“What! don’t you know ‘’Is ’Ighness’?”

“‘His Highness’? No, I don’t. Who is he; one of our class?”

“No; he’s an upper middle chap; Trevor Nesbitt’s his real name. The
fellows call him ‘’Is ’Ighness’ because he’s English. He’s a good sort,
all right, but I wish he’d let driving alone.”

“So do I,” responded the boy at the other end of the seat, “but”--a
note of admiration creeping into his dubious tones--“he knows how, all
right!”

“But, I say, Hope,” cried the previous speaker, “look there; we’ve
got to go around that corner! Let’s say our prayers.” Hope’s brows
contracted as he glanced ahead; then he slid from the seat, rested
himself on his knee, clinging tightly the while, and leaned over the
back of the seat ahead.

“Look here, can you get them around that turn?”

“Who’s that, Williams?” asked Nesbitt without looking around.

“Dick Hope; he wants to know----”

“Tell him to shut up and sit down, Williams,” interrupted Nesbitt
calmly. Hope flushed angrily, but said no more, crouching in his place
between the seats with an idea of lending a hand in case of disaster,
although in just what way he could be of use was far from clear.
Nesbitt raised to his feet, propping himself firmly, the reins tight
wrapped about his hands.

“Hold tight all,” he warned, “and bear to the right!”

With the turn but a few yards away he brought his weight to bear on
the lines, swaying from side to side with the lurching coach, settling
farther and farther back as the horses lowered their heads to the
command of the tugging bits. Hope thought of “Old Joe” at that moment,
and glanced across at him. The stage-driver was silent now, his cheeks
white, his face drawn. Williams, too, was pale, and his rigid attitude
told more plainly than words that the fun had ceased for him. Nesbitt
alone of the three occupants of the box appeared at ease. Hope could
see the warm color playing on his cheek, and----

“Easy, boys, easy!” Nesbitt called slowly, soothingly to the horses,
and then-- Well, Hope was clutching desperately at the boards in the
grating; he saw the backs of the straining animals turn at an angle to
the stage, heard the great wheels _slur-r-r_ across the frozen ground,
felt the body of the coach sway far to the left, as though it were on
its way across the fence at that side, and opened his eyes again to
find a straight road ahead of them, and to see Nesbitt settle himself
into his seat once more. “Old Joe” muttered an exclamation of relief.
Hope again leaned across Nesbitt’s shoulder.

“I think you’ve shown off enough for to-day,” he said. “Now pull those
horses down--if you can.”

Nesbitt glanced back into the other’s face, an angry light in his blue
eyes.

“Will you kindly attend to your own affairs?” he asked with suspicious
sweetness. Hope smiled in spite of his anger.

“If you don’t think it’s my affair,” he replied, “maybe you’ll
acknowledge that the gentlemen ahead have something to say about it.”
Nesbitt looked up the road and whistled.

“Just my bally luck!” he murmured. “Professors!” With straining arms he
bore back on the lines. Little by little the horses slackened speed,
and at last dropped into a trot, but not before the coach had swept by
two very serious-faced Hillton professors out for a walk, whose sharp
glances presaged trouble. Nesbitt handed over the lines and whip to
“Old Joe.”

“My luck again,” he sighed.

“An’ serves you right,” grunted the driver.

Hope crawled into his seat again. His companions were busy explaining
the course of events to the inhabitants of the interior of the coach,
or as many of them as could get their heads out the doors, and ere
the latter had run out of questions the stage turned into the academy
grounds and crawled sedately up to the steps of Academy Building.

Hope leaped from the coach and hurried off to his room, while the other
boys, laughing and joking, clustered about Nesbitt. “Wheels won’t do a
thing to you,” one lad assured him with a grin.

“Well, don’t let it trouble you, Tommy,” he answered gaily. “But, I
say, Williams, who was that meddlesome chap on the back seat?”

It was Williams’s turn to grin.

“The fellow you told to shut up, you mean?” Nesbitt nodded.

“Oh, no one much; just Dick Hope, captain of the crew.”

CHAPTER II

INTRODUCING DICK HOPE

The sun was almost out of sight as Dick Hope crossed the yard toward
Masters Hall, and the shadows of the buildings, stretching far over the
ground, seemed to harbor many little gusts of icy wind, and looked dark
and dismal in contrast with the broad expanse of golden, sun-bathed
marsh across the river. Dick pulled his coat closer about him, ran up
the old, worn granite steps of the dormitory, and gained the hallway
with a sense of comfort and homecoming.

Securing his key from the matron’s room, he leaped up the first flight
of narrow stairs and, half-way down the corridor, unlocked a dingy
door which bore a big black figure 16, and, below it, a card with the
inscription “Richard Fowler Hope.” The room was filled with the mellow
light of the setting sun, and here and there the rays were caught--by
the glass doors of the bookcase, by the metal top of the inkstand,
or, less sharply, by the silver and pewter mugs ranged along the
mantel--and were thrown back in golden blurs that dazzled the eyes.

Dick laid aside his coat and cap, took off his gloves, and thrusting
his hands into his pocket, surveyed the apartment smilingly. It was
awfully jolly to get back, he thought happily, as his gaze took in
the shabby, comfortable furnishings and the hundred and one objects
about the room so intimately connected with three and a half years
of pleasant school life. An array of worn and soberly bound books
lined an end of the leather-covered study table, and he took one up
and fluttered its pages between his fingers; it was a good deal like
shaking hands with an old friend. With the volume still in his clasp
he moved to the mantel and examined the knickknacks thereon, the cups
and photographs and little china things, all cheap enough viewed from a
money standpoint, yet to Dick priceless from long possession. He felt
a momentary heart-flutter as his eyes fell on one pewter mug ornately
engraved with his name.

As he looked the mantel and wall faded from sight, and he saw a stretch
of cinder track, pecked by the spikes of runners’ shoes; at a little
distance a thin white tape. He saw himself, head back, eyes staring,
struggling desperately for that white thread across the track. Again
he heard the thud and crunch of the St. Eustace runner’s feet almost
beside him; heard, far more dimly, the shouts of excited onlookers, and
again felt his effortful gasps as he gained inch by inch. The captain
of the track team had been the first to reach him as the tape fluttered
to the ground and he turned, half reeling, onto the turf. And he had
thrown an arm about him and lowered him gently to the welcome sod and
had whispered three short words into his ear, words that meant more
than volumes of praise:

“_Good work, Dick!_”

The vision faded and the boy, with a sigh that expressed more happiness
than a laugh could have done, turned away from the mantel. The crimson
silk sash-curtains, drawn to the sides of the two windows, glowed like
fire, but the shafts of sunlight had traveled up the walls to the
ceiling, and the study was growing dim. In the fireplace a pile of wood
and shavings was ready to light, and Dick, scratching a match along the
mantel edge, set it ablaze and drew an easy chair to the hearth. With
the shabby school-book in his hands, he settled comfortably against the
cushions, and, his gaze on the leaping flames, let his thoughts wander
as they willed.

There was plenty to think of. Before him lay five of the busiest,
most important months of his school life, months that would be filled
with plenty of hard work, much pleasure, and probably not a little
worriment, and which might be crowned with a double triumph for him,
for his hopes were set upon graduating at the head of his class and
upon turning out a crew which in the annual boat-race with Hillton’s
well-loved rival, St. Eustace, would flaunt the crimson above the blue
in a decisive victory. To attain the first result many long hours of
the hardest sort of study would be necessary, while the last would
require never-flagging patience, tact, courage, and skill, and would
demand well-nigh every moment of his time not given to lessons. The
outlook did not, however, frighten him. He had returned to school
feeling strong and confident and eager to begin his tasks.

When, the preceding June, after a sorrowful defeat by St. Eustace,
the members of the Hillton crew had met to elect a new captain,
Richard Hope had been chosen because he above all other candidates
possessed the directness of purpose, the gift of leadership, and the
untiring ability for hard work requisite to form a winning eight from
unpromising material; even the defeated candidates for the post,
which at Hillton was the highest and most honorable in the gift of
the school, applauded the choice, and, with a possible exception,
honestly felt the pleasure they expressed. The possible exception was
Roy Taylor, one of the best oarsmen at Hillton. Taylor had striven hard
for the captaincy and had accepted defeat with far less graciousness
than had the other three candidates, though he had tried to hide his
disappointment under a mask of smiling indifference. The recollection
of Roy Taylor was this evening almost the only source of uneasiness to
Dick as he watched the mellow flames leap and glow.

Presently he pushed back his chair, lighted the drop-light on the table
and drew the blinds. It was almost supper time. Throwing aside his
coat, he unpacked his satchel, distributing several presents about the
study. Then, with his toilet articles in hand, he opened the door into
the bedroom and started back in surprise. Between the two narrow iron
bedsteads stood a pile of luggage. A dilapidated tin trunk, painted
in ludicrous imitation of yellow oak, flanked a handsome leather
portmanteau, while upon these was piled a motley array of bundles and
bags; a tennis racquet and two cricket bats were tied together with
three brightly colored neckties; a battered golf bag fairly bristled
with sticks; a pair of once white flannel trousers were tied about
at the ankles with strings, and were doing duty as a repository for
discarded shoes, golf, tennis, and cricket balls, and sundry other
treasures. The improvised bag had fallen open at the larger end and had
disgorged a portion of its contents in the manner of a huge, strangely
formed horn of plenty. Crowning all was a soiled clothes bag, vivid
with purple lilies on a yellow ground, whose contour told plainly that
it held books.

Quickly following his first moment of surprise came to Dick a knowledge
of what the presence of the luggage meant, and his grin of amusement
was succeeded by a frown. The boy who had shared his quarters with
him at the beginning of the year had left the academy in October, and
Dick had held sole possession of the rooms until now. He had been
told that with the commencement of the winter term he would have a
roommate, but until that moment he had forgotten the fact. He wondered
as he spluttered at the wash-stand what sort of a chap his future chum
was, and drew ill augury from the queer collection of luggage. With
towel in hand he walked around the pile and studied the labels and
the initials that adorned trunks and bags. The former were numerous;
plainly the owner of the yellow tin trunk had traveled, for a Cunard
steamship label flanked a red-lettered legend “Wanted,” and the two
were elbowed by the paper disk of a Geneva hotel. The initials “T.
N.” told him nothing, save that the owner’s name was probably Tom.
Well, Tom was a good enough name, he thought, as he applied the brush
vigorously to his brown hair, and as for the rest he would soon learn.

Drawing on his coat and lowering the light, he hurried across to
Warren Hall and supper. The dining-room was well filled, and as he
made his way to his seat at a far table he was obliged to return a
dozen greetings, and had he paused in response to every detaining hand
that was stretched out he would scarcely have reached his seat in
the next half hour. It was pleasant to be back again among all those
good fellows, he thought as he laughingly pulled himself free from
the clutches of his friends, and pleasanter still to know that they
were glad to have him back. His heart beat a little faster than usual,
and his cheeks were a little more flushed as he clapped his nearest
neighbor on the shoulder and sank into his chair, only to leave it
the next moment and detour the table to shake hands with Professor
Longworth, who had bowed to him smilingly across the board.

“Vacation seems to have agreed with you, Hope; you look as hearty as
you please. You must let Mr. Beck see you before the bloom wears off;
he’d rather see one of you boys looking fit than come into a legacy.”

“I’m feeling fine, sir,” laughed Dick, “and I’m so glad to get back
that even trigonometry doesn’t scare me.”

“Hum,” replied the professor grimly. “Just wait until you see what I’ve
got ready for you.”

Dick was soon busy satisfying a huge appetite and listening to the
veritable avalanche of information and inquiry that was launched at him.

“St. Eustace has chosen the negative side in the debate, Hope, and old
Tinker’s tickled to death; says he’s certain we’ll win, because----”
“Dick, come up to my cave Saturday afternoon, will you? Burns isn’t
coming back, and he’s written me to sell his stuff, and we’re going to
have an auction; Smith junior’s going to be auctioneer, and we’re going
to hang a red flag out the window, and----” “Did you hear about that
upper middle chap they call ‘’Is ’Ighness’? He nearly upset the coach
this afternoon, they say, and Professor Wheeler’s going to put him on
probation. Chalmers says he told Wheeler that----” “We’ve got some
dandy hockey games fixed, Hope; Shrewsburg’s coming down Monday next if
the ice holds and St. Eustace about the first of Feb.” “You ought to’ve
been with us, Hope, last Saturday. We went fishing through the ice, and
Jimmy Townsend caught four regular whales; and we cooked them at the
hut on the island and had a fine feast, only the silly things wouldn’t
get quite done through, and tasted rather nasty if you didn’t hold your
nose and swallow quick.” “Say, have you seen Carl Gray? He told me to
tell you that he’d be up to your room after supper; wants to see you
most particular, he says. Don’t forget I told you, ’cause I promised
I would.” “I’m going to try for the boat, Hope. When shall I report?”
“When you make the crew, youngster, I’ll win a scholarship; and that
won’t happen in a thousand years!” “Speaking of the crew, Dick, Roy
Taylor says we’re goners this year.”

Dick helped himself generously to the blackberry jam.

“How’s that?” he asked calmly.

“Says we haven’t got good material.”

“If we had seven other fellows as good as Taylor we’d be all right,”
responded Dick. “And as it is, we’ve turned out cracking fine crews
before this from even less promising stuff. Well, I’m off. Never mind
what Todd says, Jimmy; show up with the others and have a try. I only
wish there were other chaps as plucky!”

And amid mingled groans of reproach and derision Dick pushed back his
chair and left the hall. When he reached the second floor of Masters he
saw that the door of Number 16 was ajar, and that some one had turned
up the light.

“Gray’s waiting, I guess,” he told himself. “Wonder what he wants?” He
pushed the door open, and then paused in surprise on the threshold.

In Dick’s big green leather armchair, his slippered feet to the blaze,
a book in his hands, reclined very much at his ease the youth who had
driven the stage-coach.

“’IS ’IGHNESS”

At the sound of the closing door the boy in the chair glanced up, laid
aside his book, and pulled himself to his feet. Despite his annoyance
at what he considered the other’s cheekiness in having taken possession
of the study without explanation or apology, Dick was forced to a
grudging admiration for the appearance of the boy who confronted him.
He was such a healthy, wholesome-looking duffer, Dick thought, that it
was a shame he hadn’t better sense. What Dick saw across the length of
the study table was a broad-shouldered youth of sixteen years, attired
in a ludicrous red dressing-gown, much worn and faded, which, despite
the efforts of a knotted cord about the waist, failed by several
inches to envelop his form. His face was somewhat square in contour,
with a chin a trifle too heavy for beauty, but, as Dick reflected,
undoubtedly appropriate to the rest of the features. The eyes were
intensely blue and the hair was neither brown nor straw-colored, but of
some indescribable shade between. The cheeks were full of very healthy
color. For the rest, the youth was of medium height, sturdily built,
and, save for an easy smile of unembarrassed greeting which annoyed
Dick at the moment, was decidedly prepossessing.

During the moment of silence that followed the closing of the door,
employed by Dick in a mental stock-taking of his future roommate, the
latter’s eyes were not idle. He had been told that Richard Hope was
the captain of the crew, a position of honor which he reverenced as
devoutly as only an English lad can, and he was curious to see what
manner of boy filled that important office at Hillton. He saw a tall
youth, muscular rather than heavy, with shoulders that filled out the
coat almost to the bursting point, and a fairly small head set well
back. He saw a face with clean-cut features; a straight, sensitive
nose, rounded and prominent chin, eyes rather far apart, and high
cheek-bones that gave a look of thinness to the face. The eyes were
brown, and the hair under the cloth cap was of the same color. Above
the nose were two distinct short vertical lines, the result of a habit
of drawing the brows together into something approaching a frown when
anxious or puzzled. Just at present the lines were deep, and the
general expression of the face was one of ill-concealed annoyance. It
was the boy in the queer red dressing-gown that first broke the silence.

“I fancy you’re Hope,” he said smilingly. “My name’s Nesbitt, Trevor
Nesbitt, upper middle; I’m to share your quarters, you know.”

“I’m very glad to know you,” answered Dick, without, however, much of
delight in his tones. “I saw your luggage in the room before supper,
although, of course, I didn’t know that it belonged to--er----”

“To the beggar that was so cheeky on the coach, eh?” said Trevor. “I
didn’t know it myself--that is, until I went to the office. They told
me before recess that they’d put me in a room in Masters, but I didn’t
know who I was to be with. I----” He paused, with the slightest look
of embarrassment. “Fact is, I want to apologize for what I said on the
coach. I didn’t mean to be waxy, but those bally gees pulled so like
thunder--and I didn’t know who you were, of course, and----”

“It’s all right,” answered Dick. “I wouldn’t have interfered only I
thought you were going to upset us, and, being a senior, it was my
duty, you understand.”

“Of course, I see that,” responded Trevor earnestly. “You were right to
do what you did, and you ought to have beat my silly head for me. You
can now, you know, if you like.”

Dick smiled, and then was sorry. He had meant to maintain a lofty
expression of hauteur, in order to impress Trevor with the fact
that while he was willing to pass the other’s impertinence on the
coach he could never bring himself to an approval of a youth who so
needlessly endangered the lives of his companions in order to satisfy
a selfish whim, and who had so stubbornly transgressed the Rules of
the School (the latter suddenly appeared unusually sacred to Dick,
and he mentally spelled it with capital letters). But the smile had,
he feared, somewhat spoiled his effort. He hastened to reassume his
expression of calm disapprobation, and asked:

“Did Professor Wheeler learn of it?” He had thrown aside his coat and
had seated himself before the hearth. Trevor perched himself on an arm
of the big chair and smiled a trifle ruefully.

“Yes; I had a long talk with Wheels. I fancy he said some very good
things, but I was so beastly hungry that I’m not certain. He told me to
stay in the Yard for a couple of weeks; rather nasty of him, don’t you
think?”

“Well, Nesbitt, under the circumstances, of course----” began Dick.
Then he paused as he saw, or thought he saw, a twinkle of amusement in
the blue eyes before him.

“Oh, well, two weeks is soon over with, and I had lots of fun while it
lasted.” Trevor smiled reminiscently.

“You had driven before, I suppose?” asked Dick with supreme indifference.

“Yes; the pater and I used to do a good bit that way at home--in
England, you know--and then last summer at Richfield I kept a nag or
two rather busy.”

“Have you been in this country long?” Dick really didn’t care, of
course, but one had to make conversation.

“Four years; the pater came over here to look after his business and
brought me with him; the manager died. Then we thought--that is, the
pater did--that he’d better stay in New York and look after the
American agency himself for awhile. And we’ve been here ever since.
Last summer we decided that I’d better go to school somewhere. The
pater wanted me to go back to the other side and enter Rugby, but
I rather fancied staying over here; so I found out about American
schools, and when some one told me that Hillton generally turned out
the best eights I decided to go there.” Dick displayed interest.

“Do you row?” he asked almost eagerly.

“I’ve rowed a little when I’ve had a chance, which hasn’t been often.
Americans don’t seem to do much that way. When I was a little chap I
was a good bit of a wetbob, and was on the water a good deal. The pater
taught me all I know when I was about twelve; he rowed stroke two years
in the Cambridge boat.”

“Well, I hope you’ll try for the crew,” answered Dick, with kindly
condescension. “We want all the candidates we can get; and even if you
don’t make the varsity boat this spring, there’s the second; and you’d
have a good show for next year.”

“Thanks,” replied Trevor calmly; “I’d made up my mind to have a try for
it. I rather fancy I’ll make the varsity.”

Dick stared. Such confidence staggered him, and he tried to detect
amusement on the other’s countenance. But his new roommate was staring
seriously into the flames, for all the world, Dick thought, as if
he were trying to decide whether to accept the place at bow or
stroke. Trevor swung himself from the chair arm and tried to wrap his
dressing-gown closer about him.

[Illustration: PLAN OF HILLTON, N.Y.

REVISED FOR HILLTON ACADEMY]

    1. Academy Building.
    2. Gymnasium.
    3. Physical Laboratory.
    4. Chemical Laboratory.
    5. Masters Hall.
    6. Bradley Hall.
    7. Turner Hall.
    8. Warren Hall.
    9. Society House.
    10. Principal’s residence.
    11. Hampton House.
    12. Professor Bowles.
    13. Mrs. S. R. Higgins. B. and R.[*]
    14. J. P. Bromfield. R.
    15. J. A. Wurzbach. R.
    16. Professor Lea.
    17. W. H. Vance. B. and R.
    18. A. L. Hutchins. R.
    19. Miss P. R. Long. R.
    20. Dr. Wainwright.
    21. Methodist Church.
    22. H. D. Robins.
    23. J. A. Hamilton. R.
    24. T. H. Brown. B. and R.
    25. Kingston House.
    26. Congregational Church.
    27. L. H. Bickford.
    28. Mrs. A. V. Knoedler. R.
    29. N. D. Haewood. R.
    30. L. Beard.
    31. L. S. Scott.
    32. Merrill House.
    33. Porter’s store.
    34. J. J. O’Neill. R.
    35. Grammar School.
    36. Baptist Church.
    37. Caper’s store.
    38. Post-Office.
    39. Court-House.
    40. Town Hall.
    41. Primary School.
    42. Watson’s Stables.
    43. Eagle Tavern.
    44. S. W. Hamment. B.
    45. H. MacFarland.
    46. W. W. Carroll. B. and R.
    47. Episcopal Church.
    48. D. W. Coolidge. B. and R.
    49. H. M. Gibbs. R.
    50. C. E. Noyes. R.
    51. Miss O. Jasper. R.
    52. Joseph Grace Hospital.
    53. Boat-House.
    54. Heating plant.

    [*] B, board.
        R, rooms to let.

“Well, I fancy I’d better get that luggage out of the way. I didn’t
want to unpack until you came and could tell me where to put the
things. I’ve got a few pictures and some books, you know.”

“You can have either side of the study you want,” answered Dick. “I
was alone and so I stuck my things all round. If you like I’ll take my
stuff off that wall there.”

“Oh, but I say,” expostulated the other, “don’t do that. You’ve got the
den looking so jolly nice it would be too bad to spoil it by taking
anything down. I’ll just stick one or two of my chromo things where
there’s room. I never was much at fixing up; my den always looks like a
bally stable.”

He passed into the bedroom and Dick heard him pulling at knots and
straps and between whiles whistling a lugubrious tune that sounded all
flats. Dick spread his feet apart comfortably, thrust his hands into
his pockets and smiled at the fire; Nesbitt’s cock-suredness was truly
delightful! “He fancied he’d make the varsity!” Dick’s grin enlarged
and he chuckled softly. He almost wished that it wasn’t necessary
for him to dislike his new roommate; there was something about the
boy, possibly his placid assurance, that appealed to him. But--and
Dick’s smile froze again--it wouldn’t do for him to even appear to
countenance such escapades and--er--cheekiness as Nesbitt had indulged
in that afternoon. The youngster--he was Dick’s junior by a year--must
be taught that at Hillton fun is one thing and----

Dick’s reverie was interrupted by the subject, who appeared with a
bunch of photographs in his hand.

“Do you mind if I put a couple of these on the mantel?”

“Certainly not; it’s half yours, of course.”

The tone was very chilly, and Trevor’s cheeks flushed slightly as he
arranged the pictures behind the army of mugs. He started away and
then came back again, and, taking a photograph from its place, looked
hesitatingly at Dick, who was apparently supremely indifferent to his
presence.

“That’s the pater,” he said finally, holding out the card, and speaking
a little wistfully. Dick took the picture. It showed a middle-aged man,
rather military looking, in riding clothes; a fine, handsome chap, Dick
thought, and, having no quarrel with Trevor’s father, he said so:

“He’s awfully good-looking, Nesbitt.”

Trevor took the photograph and observed it a moment with smiling eyes
ere he placed it back on the mantel. He was evidently monstrously proud
of his father; but he only replied with elaborate indifference:

“He’s rather a good sort, the pater.” He took the rest of the pictures
down and held them out. “Here’s some more if you care to see them.”
Dick pretended to smother a yawn. “Thanks,” he said.

“I’m not boring you?” asked Trevor apologetically.

“No, indeed.” Dick was looking at the likeness of an elderly woman in a
high lace cap. “Not your mother, is it?”

“No, that is my Aunt Grace; she lives in Manchester. I haven’t a
picture of the mater here; we have only one, and the pater keeps that.
She--she died when I was quite a youngster.”

“Oh,” said Dick softly. “I’m sorry. Mothers are--well, I wouldn’t want
to lose mine, Nesbitt.”

“I fancy not. We--the pater and I--were awfully cut up when the mater
died. That’s a cousin of mine; he’s at Rugby.”

The picture showed a stolid-looking boy with decidedly heavy features
attired in flannels and leaning with studied carelessness on a
cricket bat. It was typically English, Dick thought as he laid it
aside. A photograph with “Maud” scrawled across the bottom in high
angular characters showed a conscious-looking young lady of eighteen
or nineteen years simpering from a latticed doorway. “That’s Cousin
Maud,” explained Trevor; “she’s engaged to a lieutenant of engineers
in South Africa; she’s a jolly nice girl.” When Dick had seen the last
of the photographs Trevor rearranged them on the mantel, and while
he was doing so there came a knock at the study door, followed by
the entrance of a youth in a long ulster on which the snowflakes were
melting.

“Hello, Earle, come in!” cried Dick, arising and shaking hands with the
newcomer. “Where’s Carl?”

Stewart Earle, a slim, bright-faced boy of apparently fourteen years of
age, shook the flakes from his coat and drew a note from his pocket.

“He couldn’t come over, Hope, so he asked me to bring this to you. I
had to come over to the library. It’s snowing like all get out.”

Dick took the note and ran his eyes over it. The little creases
deepened on his forehead as he tossed it onto the table. “Take off your
coat, Earle, and sit down. By the way, do you know Nesbitt?” And as the
two shook hands, “Nesbitt’s going to share these quarters with me.”

“Can’t stay,” answered Earle, “for I’ve got an hour’s work looking up
some silly stuff about some silly Grecian war. You’re looking awfully
fit, Hope.”

“So are you,” laughed Dick. “You don’t look at all like the pasty-faced
little junior of two years back.”

“I don’t feel like him, either,” answered Stewart with a smile. “Shall
I say anything to Carl?”

“Yes, tell him I’m awfully much obliged, and that I’ll look him up
to-morrow if I don’t meet him at recitation. Good-night; sorry you
won’t stay.”

When the door had closed again Dick took up the note and reread it.

    “Dear Dick” (it ran), “Wheels has sent for me to go over to his
    house this evening; something about the indoor meeting. So I
    sha’n’t be able to see you to-night. What I was going to tell
    you was that Taylor’s been trying to raise trouble on the quiet
    with the crew fellows. He says we can’t turn out a crew that
    will stand any show of winning, and is trying to discourage the
    fellows. I’ll tell you more when I see you to-morrow. Stewart’s
    going to take this over to you.

                                        “Yours in a hurry,

                                                             “CARL.

    “P. S.--Somebody ought to punch Taylor’s head--hard.”

Dick smiled as he tore up the missive, and then frowned. It was what he
might have expected of Taylor, he told himself, and yet it was a bit
discouraging. However, there was no use in meeting trouble half-way.
He got a book and settled himself to study. In the bedroom Trevor was
still distributing his belongings, and still whistling his tuneless
air. When bedtime came Dick was silent and preoccupied, a fact which
Trevor noticed.

“Hope you haven’t had bad news,” the latter said.

“Oh, no,” answered Dick, “nothing to hurt.”

Trevor turned out the gas and climbed into bed.

“Good-night,” he said.

“Good-night,” answered Dick.

For a long time the latter lay staring into the darkness thinking of
Carl Gray’s note, and of Roy Taylor, and of Trevor Nesbitt; a good deal
of Trevor. And the more he thought, the less satisfied with himself he
became. His last thought as he turned over on his pillow and closed his
eyes was that he had behaved like a particularly disagreeable prig.

CHAPTER IV

IN THE GYM

Trevor left the dressing-room and climbed the stairs to the running
track. The gymnasium was quiet and filled with the twilight of a winter
afternoon. It was but a few minutes after three, and, save for a youth
who was heroically exercising with the weights, the building appeared
deserted. But as he reached the head of the stairs the soft pat of
shoes on the boards greeted him, and he stepped aside to let a lithe
runner jog past. He recognized him as Stewart Earle, the boy who had
brought the message to Dick Hope the night before, and when he next
passed he nodded.

“Hello,” answered Stewart as he slowed down a little, “I didn’t
recognize you. Awfully dark to-day, isn’t it?”

“Beastly,” responded Trevor. Then, with a glance at the big clock he
started into a slow jog, lifting his feet high and stretching his
muscles, that were somewhat stiffened by a week’s idleness. A flood of
subdued white light bathed the track from the big north window, and as
he passed he could hear the soft _swir_ of the snowflakes against the
glass. It had been snowing all night and all day, and showed as yet no
sign of abatement. The broad skylights in the roof were covered deeply,
and looked from beneath like sheets of lead.

The boy at the weights stopped and disappeared into the dressing-room.
Perhaps he found it lonely work there all by himself. The pat of
the runners’ shoes alone broke the stillness. Trevor took his pace
from Stewart, and for some time the two circled the track. It was
twenty-four laps to the mile, and when he had accomplished that
distance Trevor went down and put in several minutes with the weights.
Several other boys had entered meanwhile, and were changing outdoor
clothing for gymnasium suits. When he had rubbed himself dry after a
shower bath, Trevor took a seat by Stewart and began to dress leisurely.

“Do you run much?” he asked.

“Yes; that is, I try. I did a mile and a half to-day. I’m going to try
for the two hundred and twenty yards at the indoor meet.”

“Why, so am I,” answered Trevor. Stewart grimaced.

“I guess it’s all up with me, then,” he said ruefully. “They say you’re
a dandy sprinter.”

“Oh, I’m not much. I suppose there are lots of entries, eh?”

“Only about sixteen, I think. You’re one of the upper middle relay
team, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m to run last, I believe. I hope we beat the seniors,” laughed
Trevor.

“I guess I’ve got more reason to want to win than you,” responded
Stewart. “My father and mother are coming up for the meet. We live in
Poughkeepsie, you know; I’d like awfully to win that two-twenty, but I
guess I won’t.”

“Well, I don’t think you need be afraid of me,” said Trevor; “I feel
rather rusty to-day. Fact is, you know, I’m a bit too heavy on my legs
for sprints, I fancy. I think I’ll chuck it after Saturday night; I’m
going to try for the crew.”

“Are you?” said Stewart admiringly. “You look as though you’d make a
cracking good oar. I sometimes think I’d like to try for the crew;
perhaps I can year after next; Beck doesn’t want me to now, he says.”

“Doesn’t want you to? Do you mean he’s forbid you?”

“N-no, he hasn’t forbidden me; but I always do as he tells me.
You see”--Stewart paused in the middle of a struggle with a white
sweater--“Beck’s done all sorts of things for me. Why, when I came
here a year ago last fall I only weighed about eighty pounds; I was
always tired, and didn’t have any--any ambition for anything; used to
sit in my room and read. Of course there’s no harm in reading, but I
didn’t seem to do anything else; Gray--I room with him over in the
village--Gray used to call me the ‘White Mouse.’ I guess I was a pretty
poor-looking youngster. Well, Professor Beck got hold of me one day
and induced me to take up a course of training; of course I’d been
doing my two days a week here at the weights and things, but I always
shirked and got tired, and it never did me any good, I guess. But Beck
made me take walks, wouldn’t let me eat anything but what was on a list
he gave me, and put me at weights. Finally he got me to try jumping,
and then running. I liked running right away. First thing I knew I
couldn’t get enough to eat, it seemed; used to be hungry every meal.
Then I entered the four hundred and forty yards last winter at the
indoor meeting and came in second. After that I couldn’t run enough. I
won the four hundred and forty at the handicap meet in the spring, and
wanted to go to the Interscholastic Meet, only Beck said I’d better
wait until this year. Of course I’m not a Samson yet, but I’m about two
hundred per cent better than I was a year or so ago. And--and Beck did
it. And that’s why I do what he says.”

“I see,” answered Trevor. “Well, Beck knows his business. You look
about as fit as any chap I’ve seen here, and I don’t blame you for
giving under to him. By the way, Gray’s the baseball captain, isn’t he?
Rather tall, thin chap?”

“Yes, he’s awfully smart, regular jack-of-all-trades. He used to do
stunts for the fellows, like mend golf clubs and cricket bats, and mold
golf balls and things, and made pretty near enough money last year to
pay his board and room rent. But he got the Carmichael scholarship
last winter, and so he doesn’t do much of that sort this term. This is
his second year as captain of the nine, and I guess he could be captain
again if he was going to be here, but he goes up to college next fall.
He--he’s been a--he’s been awfully kind to me--ever since I came here.”
Stewart glanced rather apologetically at Trevor, doubtful as to whether
he would feel a schoolboy’s contempt for the trace of feeling that he
had unintentionally allowed to creep into his tones. But Trevor smiled
understandingly.

“Must be a good sort,” he answered sympathetically. “Hello, here’s
Hope.”

Dick approached and nodded smilingly to the two. He had a slip of paper
in his hand, and as he greeted them he glanced over the dressing-room
as though in search of some one.

“Have either of you fellows seen Professor Beck?” Both replied in the
negative, and Dick folded up the slip and placed it in his pocket.
“I’ve been looking all over the place for him; wanted to see him about
the crew candidates. By the way, Nesbitt, we want you to report here a
week from Tuesday at four o’clock. I’m going to post the notices this
evening. Carl tells me you’re going to try for the two hundred and
twenty yards, Stewart?”

“Yes, I’m down for it, but Nesbitt here says he’s entered too, and I’m
rather doubtful of my chances now.”

“I didn’t know you ran,” said Dick, turning to Trevor.

“Oh, yes, I run a bit, now and then. I’ve been jogging round the track
and feel as stiff as a poker.”

“That’ll wear off all right. I was stiff myself to-day--at recitations.”

“I should say so,” exclaimed Stewart. “I honestly didn’t know a thing.
I think they ought to give us a day after recess to get caught up
with things; a fellow can’t do any studying the night he gets back to
school. I went to the library last night and almost fell asleep over an
encyclopedia.”

“Well, you did better than I did. I scarcely looked into a book.”

“Ditto,” said Trevor. “‘Turkey’ gave us fits; there wasn’t a chap in
the English class knew what the lesson was.”

“Well, I’m going to have a go at the weights,” said Dick. “See you two
later.”

“And I guess I’ll go back to the room,” said Stewart. “If you haven’t
anything better to do, Nesbitt, you might walk over that way.”

“Thanks, but Wheels is rather careful of my health just now, and
doesn’t want me to leave the grounds; he’s afraid I might get my feet
wet, I fancy; so I’ll come over and see you some other time. I have
half an idea to do some studying, just to be queer.”

The two went out together, and Dick, opening his locker, proceeded to
attire himself in his gymnasium clothes. The room had filled up with
boys, and he was kept busy answering questions about the crew. A big
youth in a blue-and-white striped sweater entered, and, seeing Dick,
made for him at once.

“Say, Hope, is it so that we’re not going to have any crew this spring?”

“No, it’s not so. We’re going to have the best crew that we ever put
into the water,” answered Dick. “Who told you such rot as that?”

“Blessed if I know who did say it, but I’ve heard one or two fellows
talking about it. I’m glad there’s no truth in it, old chap; I didn’t
think there was, you know. When are we going to work?”

“Report a week from Tuesday at four, will you? I guess we’ll start the
trouble about the fifteenth. And say, Crocker, if you hear any one
talking nonsense about no crew or poor material, just call them down,
will you? There’s nothing in it, and it’s hard enough anyhow to get the
fellows to turn out without any rumors of that sort.”

“All right.”

Crocker swung himself off, and Dick went into the gymnasium and set
to work at the weights. With the cords over his shoulders and the
irons sliding rhythmically in the box, he began to go over in his mind
a conversation he had had a half hour before with Carl Gray. Carl’s
information had not been encouraging, and Dick was more worried than
he liked to own even to himself. Carl had stayed at the academy during
the recess, as had Roy Taylor--the first for financial reasons, the
latter because his home was half-way across the continent. According
to Carl, Taylor had been very active for a week past in predicting a
failure for the crew among the old men and the possible candidates. He
could have but one end in view, to discourage the fellows, and render
it difficult, if not impossible, for Dick to get enough good men to
form a winning eight. The worst of it was, he reflected, that Taylor’s
manner of creating discouragement was so artful that it was out of the
question to charge him with it. Even during his loudest talk about the
uselessness of trying to form a good crew, he never failed to announce
his intention of reporting for practice and of doing all in his power
to avert the impending defeat. And now, as evidenced by Crocker’s
remark a few minutes since, he had even managed to gain circulation for
the report that there was to be no crew at all!

Dick changed his position, pulling the grips with half-arm movement to
his shoulders, and frowned wrathfully at the wall. Carl was right, he
told himself; Taylor deserved to have his head punched! That, however,
was the last remedy to be considered, if only for the reason that to
lose Taylor from the boat meant almost certain defeat. For the big
Nebraskan was without any doubt the best man at Number 7 that a Hillton
crew had had for many years--strong, a hard worker, and an excellent
oar. Plainly the last thing to do was to antagonize him. Besides, he
was popular among quite a lot of the fellows, and his word undoubtedly
had weight; another reason for making almost any sacrifice to retain
his good-will. If there was only another man to take his place at
Number 7, thought Dick, tugging the cords viciously, he’d mighty
soon spoil his game, but--he ran quickly over the fellows who by any
possible stretch of the imagination might be considered material for
Taylor’s position in the boat, and sighed. There was no one. It might
be that there was one among the newer candidates who, by dint of hard
work, could be fashioned into a good Number 7, but to lose Taylor
for such a possibility was risky work. No, the only course was to
apparently know nothing of Taylor’s underhand work, to undo it as best
he could, and to at all hazards keep him in the crew. For a moment Dick
wished that Taylor had been made captain.

“Hello, Hope!”

Dick turned to find a big, good-looking youth of eighteen with a rather
florid complexion and black eyes and hair smiling broadly upon him. He
was dressed in knitted tights and jersey that showed an almost perfect
form, and swung a pair of boxing-gloves in one hand.

“Hello, Taylor,” answered Dick, forcing himself to return the smile.
“How are you?”

“First-rate. Glad to see you back. Some one said you were in here, and
I thought I’d look you up; wanted to ask about crew practice. When are
the fellows going to report?”

“Tuesday week.”

“All right; I’ll be on hand. Rather a tough outlook, though, I expect.”

“Oh, I don’t know; we’ve enough of last year’s fellows to make a good
basis for the new crew. I think we’ll do pretty well.”

Taylor shook his head sadly, then looked up and smiled brightly.

“Well, never say die, eh? We must all do our best. You can count on me,
you know, old fellow. In fact, I’ve been drumming up trade already;
persuaded quite a bunch of chaps to report. The trouble is that they
don’t seem to think it’s worth while; seem to be cock-sure that we’ll
be beaten.”

“Do they? I haven’t heard anything of that sort. There isn’t any good
reason for it, anyhow.”

“Oh, come now, Hope, you’ll have to own up we’ve got a hard row to hoe.
I wouldn’t say so to any one else, you understand, but just between
ourselves, I don’t think we’ve got the ghost of a show.”

“Well,” answered Dick smilingly, “all the more reason for hard work.
And for goodness’ sake, don’t let the fellows hear you talking that
way.”

“Me? I guess not,” protested Taylor. “I know better than that, I hope!
Well, I’m going to have a bout with Miller; see you again.”

As the other turned and crossed the floor, Dick became possessed of an
almost overwhelming desire to follow him and call him to account; to
have it out with him then and there, and, if necessary, to--to---- His
fists clenched themselves and he set his teeth together. He was glad
when Taylor passed from sight. Turning again to the weights he seized
the cords and for many minutes the irons bumped and banged up and down
in the slides as though--well, as though some one thereabouts was
hopping mad.

CHAPTER V

THE INDOOR MEETING

The gymnasium was brilliantly lighted, and the seats that had been
placed under the balconies were well filled, for, despite the
inclemency of the weather, the town folks had turned out in force
for the indoor meeting. The floor had been cleared of standards and
bars, while ropes, rings, and trapezes had been relegated to the dim
recesses of the arching roof. A running track had been roped off on
the main floor, with inclined platforms at the corners of the hall to
aid the runners at the turns, while the regular track above was turned
into a temporary gallery from which the fellows who were not going to
compete--and there were about a hundred and fifty of them--viewed the
fun, leaning far over the railing, laughing, shouting, and singing
excitedly. The four classes had gathered each to itself as far as was
possible; the seniors on the left, the upper middle class on the right,
the lower middle at one end of the hall and the juniors at the other.
In front of them long draperies of class colors festooned the railing,
and class challenged class with cheers and songs, and the Hillton band
struggled bravely with a popular march.

The trial heats in several of the events had already been run off,
and in the middle of the floor a number of contestants were putting
a canvas-covered twelve-pound shot with varying success when Stewart
Earle, accompanied by Trevor Nesbitt, left the dressing-room, and
pushing their way through the narrow aisles between the rows of chairs,
at last reached the former’s father and mother, who, in company with a
tall and slender boy of sixteen, occupied seats next to the improvised
barrier that divided audience from running track.

“I want you to know Trevor Nesbitt,” said Stewart. “Nesbitt, my mother
and father. And that little boy beyond there is Master Carl Gray.”
Trevor shook hands with a small, middle-aged gentleman in sober black,
who peered upward at him in a manner that suggested near-sightedness,
and with a lady somewhat younger than her husband, whose plain but kind
face and sweet voice at once won his heart. As Gray was quite beyond
reach of his hand, he merely accorded that youth a smiling nod. Stewart
was still talking.

“You remember, mother, I told you that Nesbitt was going to run in
the two hundred and twenty yards, don’t you? Well, the funny part
of it is that we ran a dead heat in the first trial! I guess I’m a
goner already.” He ended with a smile that only partly concealed his
uneasiness.

His mother smiled from him to Trevor.

“Then you two boys will run together?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Trevor. “There’s five of us left for the final.”

“That’s very nice,” she replied, “for if Stewart is beaten he will not
feel so badly if you are the winner, will you, dear?”

Trevor muttered something about there being no danger of his winning,
while Stewart answered gaily: “But you’re leaving the other three chaps
out of the game, mother; perhaps one of them will beat us both.”

“No fear,” said Carl Gray; “Dunlop’s a stiff, Wharton isn’t in your
class, Stew, and as for Milkam, well, I think you can beat him out all
right at a hop; so it’s between you and Nesbitt, and may the best man
win.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Earle, nodding his head approvingly. “If your
friend is a better runner than you, Stewart, he should win, of course.
When do you race?” He held a program up to his eyes and scowled in an
endeavor to decipher the lines.

“In about twenty minutes, I guess. Let me see, father.” Stewart
took the program. “‘Twenty-yard dash, junior; twenty-yard dash,
senior; putting twelve-pound shot; running high jump; one-mile run;
pole vault; sixty-yard hurdle; eight-hundred-and-eighty-yard run;
two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash; relay race, one mile, lower middle
class versus junior class; relay race, one mile, senior class versus
upper middle class.’ Well, you can’t tell by this, I guess; they’ll
just pull off the events when they feel like it.”

“All out for the eight hundred and eighty yards,” cried a voice across
the building.

“There, see?” said Stewart. “That event’s down after the hurdles; you
can’t tell much by the program; you never can. I wish they’d call the
two hundred and twenty now, though.”

“Getting nervous, Stew?” asked Carl Gray.

“A little, I guess. There they come for the half mile. Look, there’s
Keeler of our class; he’s one of our relay team; isn’t he a peach?”

“A what, dear?” asked his mother.

“A--er--well, I mean isn’t he fine?” stammered Stewart, while Carl and
Trevor exchanged grins.

“Is he? He looks from here dreadfully thin,” answered Mrs. Earle.

“That’s partly what makes him a good runner,” explained Stewart. “He’s
all muscle, scarcely any weight to carry.”

“Well, dear, I do hope you won’t get to looking like that.”

“Humph, I should hope not.” This from Stewart’s father. The bunch of
ten runners had left the mark, and had begun their long series of tours
about the track, cheered from the gallery by their fellows. “Go it,
Keeler!” shouted Stewart as a youth with ludicrously long legs ambled
past, almost the last of the group. A quick glance and a fleeting grin
from a queer, good-humored, and very freckled face answered Stewart’s
cry, and the runners swept by, their feet pounding loudly as they took
the inclines at the turns. The shot putting was over and the victor, a
dumpy-looking boy with the lower middle class colors across his shirt,
had been clamorously hailed as he walked off with superb dignity, and
the vaulting standards were being put in place while a group of half a
dozen youths trod gingerly about looking very serious and important.
Finally the bar was up, with a white handkerchief across it, and one
after another of the contestants, with the long pole in their hands,
ran lightly forward, rose till their white-clad bodies swung out from
the staff like pennants, and dropped across the bar.

“Why, how easily they do it!” cried Mrs. Earle admiringly, and
Stewart’s father clapped his hands vigorously.

“Huh,” said Stewart, “that’s nothing; they haven’t begun yet; just wait
until they get that bar up to about nine feet.”

“Nine feet! Why, how high is it now, dear?”

“’Bout seven foot eight, I should think; eh, Carl?”

“There it goes to the even eight,” answered Carl, as the judges raised
the bar.

“Is--is there any danger of their falling, Carl,” asked Mrs. Earle.

“Not a bit, and if they do they’ll hit the mattress. I say, Stew, look
at Keeler.”

The runners had completed half the distance, and as they again swept
by the freckled-faced and long-legged lower middle class boy left his
place near the rear of the procession, and with an easy spurt placed
himself in the first group. The three boys added their applause to that
which thundered down from the far end of the gallery.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he won,” said Trevor. “He’s running easy
and has lots more spurt left, to look at him. But, of course, Manning
is a pretty tough proposition, I fancy.”

“Manning isn’t what he cracks himself up to be,” said Carl decidedly.
“And I’ll just bet you that Keeler wins out easily.”

A bell clanged warningly, and the tumult in the gallery increased.
“Last lap, fellows! Last lap!” “Go it, Freckles!” “Brace up, Manning!
Come on, come on!” But Manning couldn’t “come on” to any great extent,
and the lower middle boys, leaning perilously over the edge of the
gallery, fluttered their colors frantically and shouted incoherent
advice, entreaty, and triumph as Keeler, his long legs working like a
well-lubricated machine, his freckled face overspread with an easy and
confident smile, swept superbly by the exhausted Manning and two other
runners and crossed the line, as Carl had predicted, an easy winner.

When the tumult had subsided to some extent the trial heats in the
senior twenty-yard dash were begun, the track being diagonally across
the floor, and bunch after bunch of white-clad youths raced like
the wind toward the tape. The pole vaulting came to an end with a
record-breaking accomplishment of nine feet two inches by a member
of the upper middle class, and the running high jump began. Then,
“All out for the two-twenty, and hurry up!” came the command from
somewhere, and Stewart and Trevor struggled through the throng toward
the dressing-room to throw aside their wraps.

A minute or two later five boys stood on their marks awaiting the
report of the starter’s pistol. Trevor found himself by the side of
Dunlop; then came Stewart, Milkam, and Wharton. There was a golden haze
of floating dust in the air, and the faces of Stewart’s father and
mother and of Carl Gray were indistinct across the building.

“Ready!”

“Get set!”

There was an intense silence about the starting-line, but from above
came a deep sound of lowered voices, subdued laughter and the tramping
of restless, excited feet.

“_Bang!_”

And ere the report had wholly died away the five runners were a
quarter-way about the track on the first of the three laps constituting
the two hundred and twenty yards.

As they passed under the left side of the gallery the seniors leaned
over in an endeavor to catch sight of them and urged their two heroes,
Wharton and Milkam, with eager cries. Then the turn was made, and
Trevor, glancing upward fleetingly, saw a long row of faces peering
down with open mouths from which came shouts of “Nesbitt! Nesbitt!”
“Dunlop! Dunlop!” A long banner of upper middle class colors writhed
serpent-like above him, and then he was under the gallery, running
swiftly. Now and then he caught a blare of a merry two-step from the
hard-worked band. He glanced aside. Stewart was even with him, his face
anxious and somewhat pale. Wharton, Milkam, and Dunlop were strung out
behind, but all well in the race.

Up in the gallery, on the left, sat Dick Hope among the seniors. Beside
him were Williams and a stout, red-faced youth whose real name was
Todd, but who was more generally known as “Toad.” Dick watched the
runners circle the end of the building.

“First lap’s done,” he said. “That roommate of mine, Nesbitt, seems to
be something of a runner.”

“Sure,” answered Todd, “’Is ’Ighness is all right, if he _is_ a bloody
Englishman.”

“I’d rather be English than Dutch, Toad,” grinned Williams.

“Shut up, you; I’m no more Dutch than you are. Here they come! _Brace
up, Wharton!_” and Todd leaned over the railing and waved his cap
wildly in air.

“You might as well save your breath, I guess,” said Dick. “Wharton’s
out of it, and so’s Milkam. The race’s between Nesbitt and young Earle.
And as we can’t win it, I hope Earle will. He’s a decent, plucky
youngster; and--well, anything to beat upper middle, you know.”

“You’re not very loyal to your chum,” grinned Williams.

“He has no business being in the upper middle,” responded Dick calmly.
“By Jove, look there!”

Across the gymnasium the runners were speeding down the back-stretch,
Trevor and Stewart, side by side, leaving the other three farther and
farther behind at every step. Wharton and Milkam were practically
out of it; Dunlop was ten yards to the bad, but running strongly and
apparently still capable of retrieving his lost ground. At the turn
Trevor hugged the inside of the track and Stewart, smaller, lither, and
speedier-looking, snuggled in close behind him. Dunlop, head back, a
look of grim determination on his face, spurted until he had gained a
position but a scant two yards behind Stewart.

“Good boy, Dunlop!” shouted Williams, while from across the building
came a wild cry of joy from dozens of throats.

“I guess that’s his last spurt,” muttered Dick; “he’s showing the pace.”

And so it proved. The bell rang warningly, and the shouting from
excited partisans increased in volume as the last lap commenced.
Trevor, still ahead, increased his speed. Stewart accepted the
challenge promptly, and Dunlop, after a brave but futile effort to
keep his place, was left behind. Milkam and Wharton plodded along
easily a full half lap in the rear until the latter, spying Dunlop’s
predicament, suddenly spurted, and entered the lists with him in a
contest for third place, leaving Milkam, bewildered, hopelessly last.

[Illustration: On the last lap.]

At the second turn Trevor had given place to Stewart. When the two
entered the back-stretch Trevor drew alongside his rival again, stayed
there for an instant, and then drew ahead. The gymnasium was a babel
of voices. The last lap was half run, and Trevor had put two yards of
track between him and Stewart. Many yards behind Dunlop and Wharton
were having a hot race of their own wholly unnoticed, for every eye
followed the two youths whose flying feet were now pounding the incline
at the third corner.

“’Is ’Ighness wins easily,” said Todd, shouting to make himself heard
above the shrieks of his neighbors. Dick nodded. He was sorry to see
Stewart beaten, but surprised to find himself suddenly experiencing a
sensation of pride in the work of his roommate. After all, he had run a
great race and deserved to win; and really, when he came to think about
it, Nesbitt was handicapped by greater weight, and----

“Earle’s closing up!” cried Williams.

And so it was. With the contest almost over, the younger boy had forged
ahead, and at the last turn secured the inside of the track. Trevor
was wobbling! Twice he swerved unsteadily, but as the home-stretch was
reached appeared to pull himself together with an effort, and gallantly
strove to pass Stewart. But the latter, running steadily and seemingly
untired, not only held his own, but tacked another two yards onto his
gain and breasted the tape an easy winner! And how lower middle did
yell!

Dunlop and Wharton fought it out to the end side by side, the former
securing third place by the smallest of margins.

“Well, what do you think of that!” exclaimed Williams in deep disgust
as soon as he could make himself heard. “Why, ’Is ’Ighness had the race
in his pocket!”

“I think----” Dick hesitated.

“What do you think?” Dick smiled.

“I think Nesbitt was beaten,” he answered.

Williams viewed him in painful disgust.

“I think you’re nutty,” he growled. “Don’t you suppose I can see when a
man’s beaten?”

“Not always, I guess,” replied Dick enigmatically.

Whereupon Williams begged Todd to bathe Dick’s head, and in the fracas
that followed the amazing result of the two-hundred-and-twenty-yard
dash was for the time forgotten.

CHAPTER VI

THE RELAY RACE

That evening was destined to be one of triumph for Stewart Earle
and the lower middle class. In the relay race that followed the
two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash the juniors had never a chance from
first to last, and lower middle’s fourth man cantered home almost in
time to tag the junior’s last runner ere he left the mark. Stewart
and Trevor viewed the contest squatting on the floor beside the seats
occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Earle and Carl Gray.

Stewart’s mother had welcomed victor and vanquished with impartial
favor, although her pride and pleasure in her boy’s success was
patent to all. Stewart’s father smiled near-sightedly at Trevor, and
assured him that he had made a remarkable race, but his words didn’t
disguise for a moment the fact that he had expected Stewart to win,
and that he was somewhat surprised at Trevor’s thinking for a moment
that he (Trevor) stood any chance of victory. Even Stewart appeared
uncomfortable at his father’s tone, and strove to change the subject
lest Trevor should feel hurt. But the latter was genuinely glad that
Stewart’s parents had witnessed a victory for their son and had never
a thought of disappointment or envy. As to the reason for his sudden
and unexpected giving-out, however, Trevor had little to say, and when
Carl suggested that perhaps he had insufficient training since the
recess he eagerly acknowledged that that might have had something to do
with it.

“But I never had a hope of winning,” Stewart had cried, “after the
second round! I just kept on going because--well, you know--just to
make as good a showing as I could. When you fell behind I was so
surprised that I almost stopped.”

The sixty-yard hurdle-race proved of exciting interest to Mr. and Mrs.
Earle, and every one else, for that matter, and was won in the closest
kind of a finish by a senior class fellow in the remarkably good time
of eight seconds. The one-mile run followed, but failed to awaken
much enthusiasm from the audience, who were impatient for the final
event, the senior-upper middle relay race. When the mile run was half
over Trevor shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Earle, and, encouraged by
their hearty wishes for his success, hurried off to the dressing-room.
Kernan, captain of the upper middle team, took him aside and questioned
him anxiously.

“I’m afraid you’re not very fit, Nesbitt. I was going to run you last,
but I guess I’ll let Chalmers have the final and put you second. How do
you feel?”

“Spiffin!” answered Trevor heartily, “never felt better. Don’t get it
into your noddle that I’m done up, old chap, and don’t change the
order on account of that two-twenty dash. That was judgment more than
anything else----”

“Judgment!” ejaculated Kernan. “I didn’t see much judgment in it!”

“That’s your stupidity, Kernan. Can’t stop to explain now; but just you
go ahead and let me run last, like a good fellow, and I promise you you
won’t regret it.” Kernan frowned hesitatingly; then his face cleared
and he slapped Trevor on the back.

“All right, Nesbitt; run last you shall. I don’t pretend to understand
that two-twenty, but I’ll trust you to do your work. We’ve got a stiff
race, I guess, but we’re not beaten yet. The seniors will put Taylor
last, I expect; he’s a good man, all right, but if we can hold onto
them until the last round I think you can down him. What do you say?”

“I say you give me a fairly even start with Roy Taylor, and I’ll beat
him out!” answered Trevor doggedly.

“That’s the stuff! Of course, I can’t promise the even start, but I’ll
do my best, Nesbitt; and you’ll do yours, I know, and----”

“Ready for the relay! All out, fellows!”

Trevor, Kernan, and the other two members of their team, Chalmers
and Johnston, hurried to the starting-line, followed by four very
proper-looking boys wearing the senior colors. The band, hidden from
sight by a fringe of shouting juniors at the end of the gallery, played
for all it was worth. The seniors and upper middle fellows were
cheering the members of their teams individually and collectively, and
the uproar was tremendous.

Professor Beck, athletic director, and at present that court of last
appeal, the referee, gave the instructions in quick, clear tones as
the first two contestants stood on their marks. The professor was a
short man who wore glasses, who always dressed faultlessly, whether
for a principal’s reception or an afternoon on the campus, whose
slightest turn of the head or crook of the finger bespoke authority,
and whose voice, ordinarily low but incisive, could swell into a very
fair imitation of a speaking-trumpet on short notice. For the rest,
he understood boy nature from A to Z, and beyond, and could turn a
good track athlete out of anything except a wooden post, given the
opportunity. Hillton fellows, when graduated from the narrow prejudices
of the junior year, worshiped two local deities--Professor Wheeler,
the principal, and Professor Beck; and there was a well-defined notion
prevalent that should some beneficent Fate remove from the academy all
the rest of the faculty things would not only continue undisturbed, but
would run better than ever.

I have dealt at some length on Professor Beck because he is a person of
much importance. When he dies--may the day be far!--his portrait will
hang beside those of the founder and past principals in the chapel, to
be outwardly guyed and inwardly reverenced by succeeding generations of
loyal Hilltonians.

“Now, get them off quickly,” commanded the professor. The starter cried
his perfunctory “On your marks! Get set!” and then the little pistol
barked with all the ferocity of a toy spaniel, and the great event of
the meeting, the senior-upper middle one-mile relay race, was on.

Johnston, for the upper middle, and a youth named Cummings, for the
seniors, shot off together, and began their quarter mile as though they
had but one lap to accomplish instead of six. The pace was too good to
last, and every one knew it, including the runners, and so, when they
had made the first round of the track, they slowed down as though by
mutual consent, and went at the contest in businesslike style. Seniors
and upper middle classmen cheered their respective candidates, and
hurled taunts across the hall.

    “The U. M. is a stupid pup
     Who laps his milk from out a cup;
     He may have sense when he grows up
         And gets to be a Senior!”

To this chanted aspersion the upper middle fellows replied with
howls of derision, and started upon their own poetic catalogue of
the deficiencies of the rival class, the first verse of which ran as
follows:

    “Said the Prof. unto the Senior:
     ‘You must alter your demeanor,
     For such ways I’ve never seen; you’re
         Quite as awkward as a hen;
     Your walk is most unsightly, sir;
     Pray place your feet more lightly, sir,
     And always bow politely, sir,
         To the Upper Middle men!’”

There were five more verses to it, and while it lasted the seniors, led
by Dick and Todd, could only cheer incessantly and stamp their feet in
a hopeless endeavor to drown the song.

Meanwhile the first quarter of the race was nearly over, and Johnston
and Cummings, the former leading by a scant ten yards, were spurting
along the back-stretch. Then the senior runner reached the line,
touched hands with the next man, and dropped from the track tired and
breathless just as Cummings came up and Chalmers took his place in the
race.

As Johnston crossed the line Dick slipped his watch back into his
pocket. “Fifty-seven and four fifths seconds!” he bawled into
Williams’s ear. “Johnston ought to have done better by three fifths.”

Williams nodded. “We’ve got the start of them, however,” he answered.

On the second lap Clark, the senior runner, increased the lead to a
good fifteen yards, and from there on to the finish, Chalmers, try as
he might and did, could not close the gap, and the second quarter was
finished in the good time of fifty-seven and one fifth seconds. Kernan,
the upper middle team captain, entered the race with set, determined
face, and ere the first lap of the third quarter had been reeled off
had raised the flagging hopes of his classmates by a wonderful burst
of speed that put him on equal terms with the senior runner, Morris.
At the third corner he secured the inside of the track, and kept it
during the whole of the second, third, and fourth laps, although Morris
tried hard to reach him.

The shouting from the upper middle seats was wild and continuous, and
the swirling banners waved riotously over Kernan as, with head back and
bare legs twinkling, he sped along, every instant now lengthening the
space between him and the pursuer. And then suddenly the cheers and
shouts of acclaim were changed to cries of alarm and dismay. There was
the sound of a fall, and a white-clad form plunged to the floor and
rolled over and over. Kernan at the third corner had tripped on the
incline.

Morris, racing along but a few yards behind, leaped over the rolling
body, stumbled, recovered himself after a few strides, and went on.
Half a dozen fellows hurried toward Kernan, but he was on his feet
again before they could reach him, and, although he was plainly bruised
and sore from his fall, took up the running pluckily, amid cheers. But
his task was a hopeless one. Morris had used the misadventure to good
purpose, and now between him and the upper middle captain a third of a
lap stretched. Kernan, with white face, tried desperately to make up
the lost ground, and even succeeded in doing so to some extent, but
Morris’s lead was too great, and that youth swept breathlessly over
the line, nearly a quarter of a lap to the good, and, touching the
impatient, outstretched fingers of Roy Taylor, sank exhausted to the
floor.

Trevor, poised for a quick start, heard Taylor’s feet resounding
over the first incline as Kernan, staggering by, touched his hand
for a fleeting instant and toppled over. With a dash Trevor took up
the running. A quarter of a lap was more than he had bargained for
when he had professed his ability to beat Roy Taylor, but he was not
discouraged. He knew Taylor well; knew that that youth was a fast and
steady runner at quarter- and half-mile distances, but knew also that,
while a spurt at the finish was quite within Taylor’s powers, a series
of fast dashes had the effect of worrying and exciting him. Trevor
laid his plans accordingly. He realized intuitively that he was in
better condition than his rival for hard and fast work; he had run in
the two-hundred-and-twenty-yard event, while Taylor had not been on
the track before that evening; a fact which, in Trevor’s present good
physical shape, worked to his advantage; his former race, despite his
defeat, had served to put him into excellent condition for this one. He
ran easily, maintaining the distance between Taylor and himself, and at
the commencement of the second of the six laps constituting the last
quarter of the race he was still a quarter of a lap behind.

“That’s good work, Nesbitt,” cried Kernan, who, sprawled out on a
mattress, was at last beginning to find his breath once more. The
band was almost vainly striving to make its brazen notes heard above
the shouting of the students, while pennants of class colors writhed
serpent-like in the air, and seniors and upper middle classmen hurled
defiant cheers at each other across the intervening space. The lower
middle boys and the juniors cheered indiscriminately, although there
was a tendency among the latter class to uphold the seniors. Dick,
Williams, Todd, and their companions leaned over the railing and
watched the contest excitedly. Trevor and Taylor had begun the second
lap, the former with eyes intent upon the youth ahead, the latter
running with a great show of style, and with an easy and confident
smile upon his face.

“Taylor runs just as he does everything,” grumbled Todd, “with one eye
on the gallery.”

“He does like to show off,” assented Williams. “Hello!”

A roar went up from floor and balcony, and Roy Taylor, just mounting
the second incline, turned his head to see Trevor coming up on him like
a whirlwind. Instantly he leaped away, and the seniors, for a moment
dismayed, gave voice to their relief and approval. Trevor settled down
into his former pace, well satisfied, for by that unexpected spurt he
had taken off nearly a half of the distance that had separated him
from his opponent. Taylor, as soon as he saw the danger over, settled
back into his former even but not extraordinary pace, and finished the
second lap running well within himself. The third lap began with more
encouraging prospects for the upper middle class.

CHAPTER VII

TREVOR’S VICTORY

“I don’t like Taylor’s letting ’Is ’Ighness creep up on him that way,”
objected Williams. “He was napping; and he’ll need every foot he can
get before the race is over.”

“Nesbitt’s doing some head-work,” answered Dick, with a note of
admiration in his voice, “and I wouldn’t be surprised to see him get
the best of Taylor yet. If he can keep up---- Look there!”

Trevor was at his former tactics. Just as Taylor reached the second
corner the upper middle boy fairly threw himself forward, and ere the
senior runner had taken alarm had closed up with him until a mere six
yards intervened. The upper middle fellows howled with delight, and the
seniors, striving to hide their dismay, cheered lustily. Taylor’s face
wore a scowl as he increased his speed and strove to regain his lost
lead.

But Trevor held what he had taken, took his pace from Taylor, and with
never a look to right or left, kept doggedly at the other’s heels. The
fourth lap started in a veritable pandemonium. Taylor was now but a
scant ten yards in the lead, and those who saw Trevor’s calm, intent
gaze fastened upon the other boy’s shoulders realized that, barring a
mishap such as had fallen to the lot of Kernan, he would, if he did not
actually win, at least finish so close behind Taylor as to make the
race one of the closest ever witnessed at Hillton, indoors or out.

This time Taylor was on the lookout, and when Trevor spurted was
ready for him and so held his advantage. Trevor was well satisfied,
for he had no wish to pass Taylor at that time, but only to tire and
worry him. His spurt lasted until the line was again crossed. And now
Taylor took the initiative and increased his speed, for, as Trevor had
expected, the short spurts had made him nervous. But shake off his
pursuer he could not, and with the lap half run but five yards lay
between the two.

“He’s a silly chump!” shouted Todd angrily, glaring across at the
speeding senior runner. “Why doesn’t he keep that for the last lap;
can’t he see he’s begun to spurt too early?”

“I have an idea that Trevor Nesbitt’s got him scared,” answered Dick.

“You just bet he has; he’s worried to death!” This from Williams, who
was scowling blackly. “He deserves to lose it.”

“And Nesbitt deserves to win it,” said Dick.

“Humph! You seem to have changed your tune!”

Dick accepted the gibe good-naturedly.

“I have; I think Nesbitt’s the headiest youngster I’ve seen in a long
while, and as for Taylor----”

The bell clanged loudly, announcing the beginning of the last lap, and
every fellow in the balcony was on his feet in the instant. As he took
the first turn Taylor glanced hurriedly back and met the unwavering
and, as it seemed to him, relentless stare of Trevor, and putting every
effort into his work again increased his pace. Everybody was shouting
now, but as the two runners passed under the seniors’ balcony one voice
sounded more loudly than all:

“Good work, Nesbitt!”

And Trevor heard it and recognized Dick Hope’s voice, and for an
instant a smile crossed his face. Then the second incline was under
his feet, and he had to use care lest he trip. But he got safely over,
and now the time for his final effort had come. Into the back-stretch
he sped, and the watchers held their breath, for foot by foot the lost
ground was being eaten up by his flying feet. Then a burst of applause
shook the rafters and Taylor, running despairingly, heard the other
lad’s feet at his side, strove to goad his wearied limbs into faster
strides, and found with dismay at his heart that he had reached his
limit.

At the third corner Trevor with a final effort leaped into the lead,
hugging the inside of the track. At the last corner he was a yard to
the good, and from there down to the finish line, where Kernan and
Chalmers and Johnston leaped frantically about the floor, he held his
vantage, and so toppled over into eager, outspread arms, aching,
breathless, and weak, but winner of the race. And as he stretched
himself gratefully on the mattress he heard the timekeeper announce:

“Last quarter, fifty-seven and one fifth; the mile, three forty-eight
and two fifths.”

When Trevor reached his room he found Dick seated in front of the fire,
a Latin text-book face downward in his lap, his arms over his head,
and his eyes closed. The fire was almost out, and the room was chilly.
Trevor as silently as possible placed another log in the grate, and,
disappearing into the bedroom, came out again with his dressing-gown,
which after a moment’s hesitation he spread over the sleeper’s knees.
Then he doffed his coat and cap, and standing by the fireplace held
his chilled hands to the blaze and looked down at Dick. And as he
looked he fell to wondering why it was that he and his roommate got
on together so badly. It was not _his_ fault, he told himself; he had
tried every way he knew to thaw Dick’s indifference. It was now ten
days since the winter term had commenced, and the two boys were as
much strangers to each other as they had been after Trevor’s burst of
confidence on their first night together. Trevor often regretted that
confidence; he sometimes thought that he had bored Dick with his family
photographs and history, and remembered with a flush that his roommate
had never responded in like manner. Of course, his cheekiness on the
stage-coach during that unfortunate drive had been the primary cause
of Dick’s dislike; and Trevor couldn’t blame the latter for taking
umbrage; only--well, he had apologized and explained, and it seemed
that the other ought to be willing to forgive. It was not that Dick was
nasty; he treated Trevor with good-humored politeness; fact was, Trevor
reflected dubiously, Dick was altogether too polite; his politeness was
of the sort which he imagined a judge might display toward the prisoner
in the dock. He wished that Dick would throw a boot at him so that they
could have it out and come to an understanding.

Dick moved restlessly and opened his eyes. His gaze encountered
Trevor’s and he smiled sleepily and stretched himself. Then he sat up
and looked about him perplexedly.

“Well, if I didn’t go to sleep!” he said. “What time is it?”

Trevor glanced at the battered alarm-clock on the table. “Ten minutes
of twelve,” he answered.

Dick yawned and suddenly spied the dressing-gown. He pulled it toward
him and looked at it in astonishment.

“What----?”

Trevor flushed as he answered hurriedly: “It was so bally chilly here
when I came in, you know; and I thought that maybe you’d catch cold. So
I threw that over you. Just pitch it on the floor there.”

“Thanks,” said Dick. “I expect it was chilly. I was going to put
another stick on the fire, and while I was thinking about it I suppose
I fell asleep. It’s pretty late, isn’t it? Well, to-morrow’s Sunday.”

He arose and the two began to prepare for bed. There was something in
Dick’s tone and manner quite friendly, and Trevor was puzzled.

“That was a great race you ran, Nesbitt,” said the former presently.

“The last one wasn’t so bad,” answered Trevor.

“Bad! It was fine!” replied Dick warmly. “It was the best bit of
head-work I’ve seen on a track. And I was glad you beat Taylor, even if
it did mean the loss of the race to the seniors. But I rather think I
liked the first race better.”

“Well, of course you would,” said Trevor. “Earle’s a friend of yours;
and he ran a good race. I--I didn’t much mind his beating; he seems
like a jolly good sort of a chap.”

“He is a good chap; and I know it pleased him like anything to win that
race, because his father and mother were there, you see.”

“Yes.”

“It would have been too bad if he’d lost it, wouldn’t it?” Dick was
smiling rather queerly, Trevor thought.

“I suppose it would,” he answered.

“Yes; and so you gave it to him.”

“What--what do you mean?” stammered Trevor, very red and uncomfortable.

“Why,” laughed Dick, “just what I said. You’re not going to deny that
you slowed down and let him win, are you?”

For a long moment Trevor was very busy with his nightshirt, which
suddenly exhibited an unwonted dislike to going on. Then:

“I fancy there’s no use denying it,” he muttered from the folds of the
mutinous garment.

“Not a bit,” answered Dick smilingly.

“You see,” explained Trevor presently, “Earle had set his heart on
winning, and it didn’t mean anything to me, you know; I hadn’t any
relatives looking on; and then his mother was so--so jolly nice about
it, and his father, and--and all, that I just thought he might as well
win. Doesn’t it--don’t you think it was all right?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly fair, you know; but I guess it was something
even better,” answered Dick.

“Do you think Earle suspected anything?”

“I’m sure I don’t know; I didn’t see him. But Williams and Todd, who
were sitting with me, thought it was a straight race, and so I guess
Earle thought so too.”

Later, when the lights were out and the two were in bed, Dick broke the
silence.

“Are you awake, Nesbitt?”

“Yes,” came the reply from across the darkness.

“I’ve been thinking I’d take a good, long walk to-morrow after church;
up the river toward Port Wallace. Like to go along?”

“I should say so!” was the hearty reply.

“All right, I wish you would. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” answered Trevor. Then, as he burrowed his head
contentedly in the pillow, he thought: “I fancy it’s all right now, and
he won’t have to throw that boot after all!”

CHAPTER VIII

CANDIDATES FOR THE CREW

Roy Taylor’s work was apparent when on the following Tuesday afternoon
the candidates for the crew reported in the rowing-room at the
gymnasium. Dick counted the assemblage over twice, but could make no
more than nineteen, a sorry showing compared with last year; twenty
men--including himself--from which to select two eights! But he was
careful to let none of the discontent that he felt appear on his face.

“There aren’t very many of us, fellows,” he said cheerfully, “but I
guess we all mean business, and that’s a good deal.”

Professor Beck entered at that moment, paused to remove his rubbers,
and then surveyed the candidates through his glasses.

“Well, boys, are you all here?” His gaze traveled around the room. “But
I see that you’re not. Four o’clock was the hour, wasn’t it, Hope?”

“Yes, sir; and it’s now a quarter after. I guess they’re all here that
are coming.”

“Bless me, this won’t do! How many--four, six, ten, sixteen, twenty?
Twenty men for two crews. What do you fellows think we’re going to race
with this year, pair-oars?”

The candidates, perched about the room on window-sills and radiators,
smiled, but were careful not to laugh aloud, since it was evident that
the professor was thoroughly vexed.

“Hope, you’ll have to go among the fellows and work up some interest in
the crews; and Taylor, you’re an old-crew man, you do the same; and the
rest of you, too, I want you all to talk rowing, and next week I want
as many more candidates on hand. This is perfect poppycock! Twenty men,
indeed! Well, that’s all I’ve got to say to you; now listen to Captain
Hope.” And the professor withdrew to a window, where he polished his
glasses vigorously and made a number of the new candidates very nervous
by the critical way in which he studied them.

“I’d like every fellow’s name before he leaves,” said Dick. “And I
want to see every one here promptly at three o’clock next Wednesday
afternoon. Meanwhile those of you who haven’t been examined for
crew work will please attend to it. Have you set any special days,
professor?”

“Yes, to-morrow and Saturday afternoons,” answered the latter, “between
four and six.”

“You new fellows must understand that permits to take part in baseball
and track games won’t answer for rowing, so please see Mr. Beck
to-morrow if possible; if not, on Saturday. I hope that you’ll do as
Mr. Beck has requested; I mean try and work up more of an interest
in rowing; every fellow ought to be able to bring at least one other
fellow with him next Wednesday. We’ve got a hard proposition before
us this spring, but it’s by no means a hopeless one. We’ve beaten St.
Eustace on the river before--often--and we can do it again; but it
means lots of hard work, and any fellow that’s afraid of work might
as well pull out now, for we can’t have any shirking. Last spring
there was a good deal of trouble at the first of the season because
the candidates--some of them, that is--tried to get out of preliminary
work. That won’t do; the work on the weights at the beginning of the
season is really important, and it’s got to be faced; and I tell you
now that any fellow who won’t go through with it honestly isn’t wanted.
But I don’t believe there are any of that sort here to-day, and I hope
there won’t be next Wednesday. I guess that’s all I have to say. I
hope every fellow will bear in mind the fact that in trying for the
crew he is not only bettering his own physical condition and health,
but standing by the school; he can’t do more for the honor of Hillton
than by honest, sincere work on the crews. And it doesn’t make any
difference whether he makes the varsity boat or the second; in either
case he’s doing his best, doing his duty; for the fellow that rows with
the second eight is helping to turn out a winning crew almost as much
as though he rowed in the race with St. Eustace. I hope we’ll all pull
together this year and that there won’t be any discord. I’ll do my
level best, and I’ll trust you fellows to do yours; and if that is so I
defy St. Eustace or any one else to beat us!”

The audience showed its approval of these sentiments by clapping,
Taylor perhaps the loudest of all, and Dick, somewhat red in the
face from his effort, smiled, and drawing a tablet from his pocket,
proceeded to take the fellows’ names. Professor Beck settled his
glasses again on his nose and approached a youth who during the
proceedings had been perched comfortably on the top of a radiator, but
who, having secured the entry of his name in the list of candidates,
was now examining with interest the working of one of the rowing
machines.

“You’re Nesbitt, aren’t you?” asked the professor.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever rowed any, Nesbitt?”

“Yes, as a youngster”--here the professor smiled slightly--“I used to
paddle a bit; that was in England.”

“Ah, yes; I recollect you now. You won the last quarter in the relay
race the other night; that was well run, my boy, although you’re rather
too heavy for fast work. How was your wind when you finished?”

“It was rather short; the spurts tuckered me quite a bit.”

“Yes, I imagine you could get rid of eight pounds or so to good
advantage. You’d better come and see me to-morrow and take your
examination, so that I can put you to work on the weights as soon as
possible. I’m glad you’re going to try for the crew; you look as though
you were made for a rowing man.” He nodded smilingly and moved away,
and Trevor, assuming an appearance of unconcern, while secretly much
flattered by the professor’s attention, joined Dick, who had finished
his list and was conversing with Roy Taylor and Crocker, a large,
heavily built youth who had rowed at Number 6 in the second eight the
preceding year. Taylor was speaking when Trevor approached.

“Why, last winter over forty fellows turned out, and now look at ’em!
Great Scott! There’s no use _trying_ to get a decent crew out of twenty
men!”

Dick frowned, and Crocker offered a suggestion:

“Look here, the Hilltonian comes out in less than a week; what’s the
matter with getting Singer to write a ripping editorial about the
necessity for more candidates, and--and ‘asking the support of the
entire student body,’ and all that sort of stuff? Maybe there’s still
time; I’m blamed if I know when the paper goes to press.”

“That’s a good idea, Bob,” answered Dick. “And I’ll see Singer this
evening. And meanwhile you fellows do what you can; you ought to be
able to drum up lots of fellows, Taylor; you know plenty of them, and
what you say has weight.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can, Hope, of course, but there doesn’t seem to
be the usual interest in rowing this year.”

“I know; we’ve got to awaken interest. I’ll see you the last of the
week and we’ll have another council of war. Going back to the room,
Nesbitt?”

On their way across the Yard, which between the walks was a waste
of heavily crusted snow upon which the afternoon sunlight flashed
dazzlingly, the two boys were silent--Dick with the little creases in
his forehead very deep, and Trevor kicking at the ice in a manner which
suggested annoyance. When the dormitory was reached Trevor stopped
and let go savagely at a small cake of ice, which, as it was securely
frozen to the granite step, only resulted in an unpleasant jar to his
foot. But the jar seemed to loosen his tongue, for he turned quickly to
Dick as they passed into the building, and asked explosively:

“Is that chap Taylor all right?”

“Why? Have you heard anything?” asked Dick.

“No; only--only he looks as though he didn’t much like you, Hope; and
then he talks so sick!”

“Sick?”

“Yes; I mean he talks as though he didn’t _want_ the crew to be a
success; haven’t you noticed it?”

“The trouble with Roy Taylor,” answered the other gravely as they
passed into Number 16, “is that he hates to have any one else win out
at anything. He has a mighty high opinion of Roy Taylor, you know. He
wanted to be captain, and I don’t think he has ever forgiven me for
beating him; but I guess he’ll come round in the end and do his best
for the crew.”

Trevor didn’t look impressed with this last remark. He studied the
flames awhile thoughtfully as he held his hands up to the warmth. Then:

“I see. I don’t fancy, then, he loves me much after the way I beat him
Saturday night, eh?”

“I guess not,” answered Dick laughingly. “I ‘fancy’ we’re both down in
his black book.”

“Yes.” Trevor turned away and rummaged among the _débris_ of the study
table. “Seen my algebra? Never mind, here it is.” He drew a chair up
before the fireplace and opened the book, only to lay it down again and
deliver himself forcibly of the following declaration:

“Taylor may be as waxy with me as he likes, Hope, but he’s got to
understand that if he interferes with this crew business there’s a
plaguy lot of trouble ahead for him!”

“And for me, too,” thought Dick, as he gazed despondently at the slim
list of candidates.

CHAPTER IX

THE HOCKEY MATCH

The balance of the week was a busy time for Dick. His usual hour of
study before supper was dropped, and he spent that time with every
other spare moment in trying to recruit candidates for the crews.
He buttonholed boys in classroom and even in chapel, pursued them
across the frozen Yard, waylaid them in the corridors, and bearded
them in their dens; and all with small success. Those who displayed a
willingness to go in for rowing were almost invariably younger fellows
whose ambitions were better developed than their muscles. Those whom
Dick longed to secure had an excuse for every inducement he could set
forth. The seniors pleaded lessons; the upper middle fellows were going
in for baseball, cricket, anything save rowing; the lower class boys
were unpromising to a degree; and when Saturday came he found that
out of a possible ten recruits the most promising was a long-legged,
pasty-faced youth who had been dropped from the hockey team and whose
desperate desire to distinguish himself in some manner was alone
accountable for his complaisance.

That Taylor and Crocker and some of the other candidates had been
busy was evident from the first--Taylor especially, Dick told himself
bitterly.

“Try for the crew?” said one senior whom Dick approached, “why, Roy
Taylor was speaking to me about it, and I promised him I’d think it
over. But I don’t see how I can, Hope; you know yourself how beastly
hard the studies are this term; I’m an awful duffer at mathematics, and
German, too; and then as for physics--well, really I can’t see how I’m
ever going to pass.” And when Dick pointed out modestly enough that he
(Dick) had the same studies and was going in for rowing, and expected
to graduate notwithstanding, the other waived the argument aside
carelessly: “Oh, _you_, Hope! You’re different; you’re one of those
lucky beggars that never have any trouble with lessons. Why, if I was
like you I wouldn’t hesitate an instant; I’d say put me down for the
crew right away. But as it is---- By the way, is it true that you’ve
only got twenty candidates?”

“Who told you that?” asked Dick.

“Taylor, I think. That isn’t very many, is it? I don’t see how you’ll
get a crew out of that.”

“Nor do I,” muttered Dick, as he turned away discouraged.

When Saturday came, bringing Carl Gray at two o’clock with the
suggestion that Dick join him and witness the hockey match with St.
Eustace, the latter concluded that he had earned a vacation, and so
donned his warmest sweater and jacket and allowed himself to be torn
away from the subject of candidates. As the two lads crossed the yard
toward the steps that led down to the river by the boat-house they
encountered Trevor, who, when their destination was made known to him,
turned about and joined them. It was a bitterly cold day, and the wind,
sweeping down the broad river, nipped ears and noses smartly. Despite
this, however, a fair-sized audience had assembled on the ice near the
landing, where a rink had been marked out, and were either circling
about on skates or tramping to and fro to keep warm.

“Haven’t begun yet,” said Carl Gray as they reached the head of the
steps. “Looks as though they were having a debate instead of a hockey
match.”

As they reached the ice they saw that the captain of the Hillton team,
an upper middle youth named Grove, was in earnest conversation with a
St. Eustace player--apparently the captain of the opposing team--while
a circle of interested boys surrounded them. As the three approached
the gathering broke up, and Grove, spying Dick, came toward him looking
angry and indignant.

“Say, Hope, what do you think? St. Eustace wants to play that big dub
over there; see him? The fellow with the white sweater. Why, he’s
twenty-two if he’s a day! And he isn’t a St. Eustace fellow at all;
Brown knows him. He lives at Marshall and works in a mill or something.
I’ve told French that we wouldn’t play if they put him on. Don’t you
think that’s right?”

“He does look rather big and aged for a St. Eustace chap,” replied Dick
with a grin. “And of course if you’re certain he’s an outsider you’re
right not to give in. What does the St. Eustace captain say?”

“Oh, he says the fellow’s a day scholar; that he’s only eighteen; and
that they haven’t brought any subs, and that if Billings--that’s the
mucker’s name--if Billings can’t play there won’t be any game.”

“Queer thing to come all the way up here without any subs,” said Carl.
“But I tell you what you can do, Grove; offer to lend them a man. What
does Billings play?”

“Forward,” grumbled Grove. “We might do that. Who could we give them?”

“You’d have to give them a good player,” said Dick.

“I suppose so. Well, there’s Perry over there.”

“No, you don’t,” laughed Dick. “I know Perry; I talked with him the
other day; he’s the fellow you dropped from the team last week.” Grove
looked sheepish.

“Well, what business have they got trying such tricks?” he muttered
in extenuation. “I guess I’ll offer them Jenkins; he really is a good
player, Hope; you know that yourself; I’ll put Dennison in his place.
And if I do they’ll likely beat us.”

“Let ’em. Go ahead and make the offer.”

Grove sped away and promptly returned with the announcement that
St. Eustace had agreed. “But we want another goal umpire. Will you
act, Hope?” Dick would, and was led away. The rink was cleared of
spectators, and Trevor and Carl found places of observation on the
side-line. The opposing teams took their places. The Hillton players
wore crimson sweaters and stockings; before the St. Eustace goal were
six blue-clad youths and one crimson, the latter being Jenkins, the
borrowed forward. Grove and French, the St. Eustace captain, faced the
puck, the referee cried “Play!” and the game was on.

It proved a brilliant game, despite the high wind that seriously
handicapped the side having the down-river goal. Hillton’s playing
in the first half was quick and plucky, and for the first ten of the
twenty minutes St. Eustace’s goal was almost constantly in danger. But
try after try was foiled by the brilliant work of the Blue’s goal-tend,
who time and again won the applause of the shivering audience. Then St.
Eustace secured the puck and forced the playing, and for a few minutes
Hillton seemed to be taken off her feet. A beautifully lifted stroke
finally sent the puck skimming through Hillton’s goal, and the St.
Eustace players waved their sticks in delight. Hillton braced when play
began again, and was dribbling the disk threateningly toward the Blue’s
goal when time was called.

“I wish I had Jenkins back,” complained Grove as, bundled in his
blanket, he joined Trevor and Carl. “He played better than any fellow
on our team--or theirs either, for that matter.”

“Who shot that goal?” asked Carl.

“French; it was a dandy. Our little friend Billings yonder looks mad,
doesn’t he?”

The displaced player had joined the St. Eustace team, and was evidently
bemoaning his fate. He was a tall, freckle-faced youth who, as Grove
had said, appeared every day of twenty-one or two. He had a slouchy
stoop to his shoulders, but nevertheless looked dangerous as a hockey
player. Dick joined the other three lads.

“I just heard your freckled-faced friend explaining why it is you’ll
never make a good player, Grove,” he announced. “He says you don’t get
low enough; says he could put you off your feet easily.”

“He does, eh?” grunted Grove. “I wish we’d let him play; I’d put him
off _his_ feet, the big mucker!”

“There, there, keep your sweet little temper,” laughed Dick. “And come
on; time’s up.” The crowd took up its position along the boundary lines
again, and again the puck was put in play. Hillton had good luck at the
start. Superb team work on the part of the crimson-clad forwards took
the disk down to within striking distance of their opponents’ goal, and
a quick drive by Grove sent it through. St. Eustace’s goal-tend looked
surprised and vexed, and the audience cheered delightedly. Four minutes
later the same proceeding was repeated, and after two ineffectual tries
the puck slid through between the goal-tend’s skates just where he
apparently didn’t expect it to go. That was Dennison’s score, and again
the onlookers voiced their pleasure. The score was now two to one in
Hillton’s favor, and St. Eustace shook herself together and played
hard. For ten minutes neither side scored. Then, by a brilliant rush
down the side of the rink, Jenkins, the borrowed player, fooled the
Hillton cover-point, and, aided by French, ran past point and lifted
the disk through between the Hillton posts--a difficult shot that won
him lots of applause. The score was now tied, with a scant five minutes
of play left.

Trevor and Carl, deeply intent on the game, suddenly had their
attention diverted by a voice from near at hand. “What do you think
of that, now? What do those fellers in red think they’re playing,
billiards? O-oh, ain’t that awful!” It was the deposed St. Eustace
forward, Billings, who was celebrating the Blue’s recent goal, and
revenging himself on his enemies by ridiculing the home players. Carl
glared, and the throng surrounding him looked hostile to a boy.

“He ought to have sense enough to keep his mouth shut,” said Carl.

“Yes, but he’s got pluck to talk that way in this crowd,” replied
Trevor with a grin.

“Not a bit; he knows he’s safe enough. It isn’t likely that fifty or
sixty fellows would jump on one lone chap, no matter how cheeky he
was.”

The ridicule continued, but after the first recognition of the affront
the throng of Hilltonians tacitly ignored the freckle-faced youth;
indeed, in another minute his existence was forgotten, for with but
a couple of minutes to play St. Eustace’s point secured the puck,
and with a fine stroke sent it sailing down the rink into Hillton
territory, where a misplay on the part of the Crimson’s cover-point
gave Jenkins his opportunity, and the next instant Hillton’s goal was
besieged. A stroke at close quarters was blocked, and the disk skimmed
toward the side of the rink, only to be again recovered and dribbled
forward until it was once more in the possession of the redoubtable
Jenkins. There was a rush by Grove and another Hillton forward, the
sound of clashing sticks, and then out from the _mêlée_ like a shot
from a cannon sped the puck, straight for the goal and about two feet
above the ice. The Hillton goal-tend leaped to the left and turned to
receive the disk on his padded thigh. But he was too late. The puck
struck him, but was only slightly deflected, and in another moment
the St. Eustace sticks were waving high in air, and the goal-tend,
crestfallen and dazed, was ruefully rubbing his hip. Hillton returned
resolutely to the battle, and the puck was again faced, but time was
called ere it was well out of the scrimmage, and the game was St.
Eustace’s by three goals to two. Trevor turned away in disappointment,
and was confronted by the triumphant Billings, who was whirling his
stick about his head and grinning provokingly.

“Oh, easy, easy! Those kids can’t play hockey; they ought to be at
home doing needlework.” Carl muttered something uncomplimentary, and
Trevor reddened as they pushed their way through the dissolving throng.
Billings, spying Trevor as he approached, thrust himself in his path.

“Say, sonny, why don’t you kids learn the game?”

Trevor strove to keep his temper and pass, but the Marshall youth laid
a determining hand on his arm.

“You see, sonny, what you Hillton kids want to do is to learn how to
skate, see? There ain’t any use trying to play hockey until you can
skate.”

Trevor turned and smiled very sweetly.

“Perhaps you think you can skate?” he asked in a tone of polite inquiry.

“I have a hunch that way,” replied Billings with a swagger.

“That’s very nice,” answered Trevor, “because you don’t look as though
you could, you know.”

A circle of interested Hilltonians had already formed, and were
grinning their appreciation. Billings appeared somewhat astounded for
an instant. Then he thrust his jaw out aggressively, and asked angrily:

“Say, what’s the matter with you, kid? Do you think you can teach me
anything about skating?”

“Well, of course, I’m a month or two younger than you, you know”--here
the crowd snickered impolitely--“but I rather fancy that I can beat
you by a few yards in a half-mile race. Would you care to try?”

For a moment Billings looked doubtful. Possibly he thought that he had
unwittingly encountered the school’s crack skater, and feared for the
result. If he did the idea was dispelled by Trevor’s next remark.

“They don’t call me much of a skater here, you know; we have several
fellows who can beat me without trouble, but they’re all rather busy
just at present, and so, if you don’t mind putting up with something
ordinary, I’ll be glad to show you what I can about skating.” The
gentle patronage of Trevor’s tones was beautiful, and the audience
hugged itself gleefully. Billings laughed loudly and scornfully.

“You will, eh? Say, you’re awfully nice, aren’t you? Mama know you’re
out?” Trevor reddened but kept his temper.

“I fancy I could beat you by about twenty yards in a half mile,” he
said musingly.

That was the last straw, and Billings elbowed his way toward the
boat-house landing.

“Get your skates on, sonny, and I’ll show you what you don’t know about
skating.”

“Where can I get a pair?” asked Trevor, addressing the fellows about
him.

“Get Grove’s; what size shoe do you wear?” asked Carl. “Five? They
ought to fit; wait here and I’ll get them.” And he hurried off.

“Do you think you can beat him, ’Ighness?” asked one of the crowd.

“I fancy so; anyhow, I’ll do my best.” Carl returned with Groves
skating-boots, to which were screwed a superb pair of hockey skates.
Trevor tried them on, and found that they fitted perfectly. News of the
proposed race had spread, and those who had started toward their rooms
had returned, while the two hockey teams, having taken off their skates
and donned their heavy clothing, also joined the throng. Billings swept
up majestically, and Trevor, who had been trying his skates in short
circles, joined him.

“Suppose you skate around Long Isle and back,” suggested Grove; “that’s
about a half mile. We’ll draw a mark here for the finish. I say,
French, you might act as judge at the finish. Dick, you start them,
will you?”

“Standing start?” asked Dick.

Trevor looked inquiringly at Billings. “Doesn’t matter to me,” growled
that youth.

“All right. On your marks,” said Dick. “You’re to skate to the right,
around Long Isle, and return here, crossing this line in this way from
below. Is that satisfactory?”

Trevor nodded and felt for a hold with his rear blade, and Billings
uttered another growl.

“On your marks!--Set!--_Go!_”

Away they sped, Billings slightly in the lead, having learned the
science of quick starting from his hockey experience. They crossed
the river diagonally, heading for the down-stream end of the
island, Billings bending low, hands clasped behind his back, in the
approved style of American racers; Trevor more erect, arms swinging
by his sides, and apparently putting forth much less effort than his
competitor.

“Carl, can Nesbitt skate?” asked Dick somewhat anxiously. Carl shook
his head.

“Don’t ask me. I never met him until the other day. But he _can_ skate;
we can see that; the question is how well?”

“I hope he’ll win, if only to shut that bragging mucker up. Hello, look
there!”

Carl looked and uttered a groan of dismay. Long Isle, lying almost
abreast of the boat landing and about two thirds way across the river,
is in reality composed of not one, but two islands, the second,
scarcely twenty yards long, being separated from the main expanse
at its lower end by a scant two yards of ice-covered channel. This
fact had been overlooked, and now the watchers saw, at first with
surprise and then with annoyance, that the skaters had parted company.
Billings had headed for the channel, while Trevor, holding to a close
interpretation of the agreement, was making for the end of the smaller
island. The next moment Billings was out of sight; another instant and
Trevor too had disappeared.

“If Nesbitt can overcome that handicap he’s a good one,” muttered Dick.

“That’s so,” Carl assented. “It means a good fifty yards lost, I
guess.” Some of the boys had hurried across the ice to the island, and
from a point of vantage near its northern end were to be seen waving
their arms wildly. But the throng at the finish could gather no hint
from their gestures as to the progress of the racers.

“Evidently a misunderstanding there,” said French, the St. Eustace
captain, approaching Grove. “Which is Long Isle?”

“Both of ’em,” grunted Grove.

“Well, but----”

“Oh, it’s all right, I guess; Billings wasn’t supposed to know; it was
my fault; I forgot about that plaguy little bunch of land beyond there.
The fellow that crosses first wins,” he added decisively. “What do you
say, Hope?”

“That’s right; Billings couldn’t know that he was supposed to go around
both islands.”

“Very well,” answered French, “but I’m sorry there was any
misunderstanding. Your man may think that he might have won if it
hadn’t been for the mistake.”

“He may win anyhow,” said Dick dryly. “The race isn’t over yet.” French
looked to see if Dick was joking, but finding no signs of levity,
smiled politely and deprecatingly, and moved off. The next moment the
boys on the island left their places and came scrambling back across
the ice, and then a skater came into view around the up-river end of
the island and headed for the finish.

“It’s Billings,” said Dick in disappointed tones. But ere the words
were out of his mouth a second form sped into sight, and a cheer went
up from the watchers. Trevor was apparently but a half dozen yards
behind, and, although as the racers were coming directly toward the
group it was impossible to be certain on that point, seemed to be
gaining at every stride.

Carl slapped Dick boisterously on the shoulder and then hugged him
ecstatically. “Can ’Is ’Ighness skate, Dick? _Can he skate?_”

“Can he!” howled Dick. “Look, he’s even with him; he’s--by Jupiter,
Carl, he’s ahead of him!”

He was; and not only ahead now, but leading by a good three yards.
Every voice was raised in shouts of encouragement, and cries of “Hurry
up, Billings!” “Come on, Nesbitt!” “You can beat him! Brace up!” “Bully
for Hillton!” broke into the frosty air as the two racers, bearing down
swiftly, almost silently, on the finish line, sped nearer and nearer.

Twenty yards away Trevor threw a fleeting glance over his shoulder
at his straining rival, and then, suddenly bending lower over the
leaden-hued surface, fairly left the other standing and shot through
the lane in the crowd and over the line a winner by ten long yards!

[Illustration: A winner by ten yards.]

And how Hillton howled!

“Even old ‘Turkey’ couldn’t beat that!” exulted Carl.

Trevor swung about near shore and skated leisurely back to where
Billings, red-faced and panting, was explaining to French and the rest
of the St. Eustace team how it happened. But his friends looked utterly
bored at his narrative, and turned away one by one toward the landing
steps. Trevor came to a stop a yard in front of the tall, freckle-faced
youth, who paused in his explanation and regarded him angrily. The
crowd hushed its chatter in delighted anticipation. Trevor thrust his
hands under his sweater and regarded Billings with a wealth of genial
condescension.

“Any time you’d like to learn more about skating,” he remarked sweetly,
“come up. I’m always at leisure Saturday afternoons.”

Then he nodded amiably and skated away ere the outraged Billings could
summon his scattered wits to the rescue of his equally scattered
dignity.

CHAPTER X

BUYING AN ICE-YACHT

“An ice-yacht,” observed Carl learnedly, “is the nearest approach at
the present age to a flying-machine.”

“And I never cared a bit about flying,” answered Dick, without
enthusiasm.

The two, with Trevor and Stewart Earle, were gathered close about the
fireplace in Number 16 Masters. Two good hickory logs were crackling
merrily, and, although owing to the fact that the steam-heating
apparatus was evidently on a strike and their backs were constantly
caressed by shivers, their knees and faces were radiantly warm; and
that was sufficient comfort. A huge paper bag was perched on the table,
and the quartet were busily munching big, rosy apples, while close to
the ashes four more were sizzling and sputtering in the heat. They had
started out with the intention of having a feast of roasted apples, but
had found that the roasting process was too slow to meet the demands of
their appetites, and so were keeping down the pangs of starvation in
the interims by consuming the fruit as Nature had meant they should.

“An ice-yacht,” continued Carl, undismayed, “can be put together very
easily and cheaply. All you have to have is four pieces of timber
and----”

“Look here, Carl,” interrupted Dick impolitely, “the last thing you
made was a toboggan, and it cost about nine dollars before you were
through with it, and you could have bought a _good_ one for five.”
Stewart giggled and Carl grinned good-naturedly.

“Well, let’s buy one, then,” he replied. “Let’s go down to Euston Point
and see the one this fellow advertises.”

“How much do they cost?” asked Trevor.

“Oh, we could get a second-hand one for fifteen dollars, easy; maybe
less. That would be only four dollars apiece, if we all went in. And we
could have the biggest kind of fun! Why, some ice-yachts go as fast as
ninety miles an hour!”

“Oh, get out!”

“They do; don’t they, Stew?”

“Easy,” answered Stewart gravely. “I’ve seen lots of them do it. I
owned one myself once that could go a hundred and thirty-seven miles
in----”

“Shut up, you idiot!” growled Carl. “What do you say, fellows; shall
we see if we can get the boat? Think how jolly grouchy the other chaps
would be to see us skipping around and----”

“And breaking our necks,” suggested Trevor.

“Nothing of the sort! Why, it’s not dangerous at all; any one that
knows anything about sailing a yacht can manage an ice-boat.”

“Well, who knows anything about sailing among this crowd? Do you,
Trevor?”

Trevor shook his head.

“Not a thing.”

“_I_ do, of course,” interrupted Carl.

“Well,” said Stewart, “as far as I’m concerned I think I’d rather have
some one else than you do it, Carl.”

“Oh, quit fooling; I’m in earnest. Suppose we go to Euston Point next
Saturday and see what’s doing?”

“But, look here,” said Dick, “how do you know Faculty will let us sail
the thing if we get it?”

“Why shouldn’t they? They allow skating; ice-yachting’s just
skating--with a difference. Besides, as long as there’s no rule against
it we have a right to do it.”

This argument was incontrovertible, and it was agreed that the four
should journey to the near-by village of Euston Point the following
Saturday morning. And then Stewart suddenly discovered that the apples
on the hearth had been done for some time, and in the business that
followed the subject of ice-yachting was forgotten.

When Dick and Trevor returned from supper that evening they found a
fresh, inky-smelling number of The Hilltonian awaiting them in the
letter-box. Dick hurried to the room with it and spread it out under
the light on the table. Yes, Singer had been as good as his word; the
leading editorial was headed The Rowing Situation, and was quite in
Singer’s best style.

“My!” ejaculated Trevor, who had been reading the article over Dick’s
shoulder, “that’s spiffin!”

“It sounds rather well, doesn’t it?” asked Dick, highly gratified by
the effusion. “And you’d think it would bring some of the fellows
round, eh?”

“Bound to; you’ll find slathers of them in the gym to-morrow
afternoon,” replied Trevor confidently. “Read it out loud, Hope.”

And Dick did so and Trevor listened admiringly and interpolated an
applauding “Hear, hear!” at intervals, and Dick went to bed very
hopeful of the morrow.

But when at three o’clock the following afternoon he repaired to
the rowing-room his heart sank. Aside from the original nineteen
candidates, but the veriest handful were present. Dick counted them
grimly; there were fourteen of them, and for the most part they not
only looked but really were sadly out of their element. A small junior
of perhaps fourteen tried to hide himself in a corner, but Dick routed
him out mercilessly and asked him cruelly if he was a candidate for
coxswain.