varsity. "Come on; we'll show 'em what a rudder looks like."
But it was not to be. In three consecutive dashes of a mile each,
the varsity boat moved with such speed as it had not shown all season.
There was life in the boat. Deacon, rowing in perfect form, passed
the stroke up forward with a kick and a bite, handling his oar with a
precision that made the eye of the coach glisten. And when the
nervous little coxswain called for a rousing ten strokes, the shell
seemed fairly to lift out of the water.
In the last mile dash Dr. Nicholls surreptitiously took his
stop-watch from his pocket and timed the sprint. When he replaced
the timepiece, the lines of care which had seamed his face for the
past few days vanished.
"All right, boys. Paddle in. Day after to-morrow we'll hold the
final time-trial. Deacon, be careful; occasionally you clip your
stroke at the finish."
But Deacon didn't mind the admonition. He knew the coach's policy of
not letting a man think he was too good.
"You certainly bucked up that crew to-day, Deacon." Jim Deacon, who
had been lying at full length on the turf at the top of the bluff
watching the shadows creep over the purpling waters of the river,
looked up to see Doane standing over him. His first emotion was one
of triumph. Doane, the son of Cephas Doane, his father's employer,
had definitely noticed him at last. Then the dominant emotion
came--one of sympathy.
"Well, the second crew moved better too."
"Oh, I worked like a dog." Doane laughed. "Of course you know I'm
going to get my place back, if I can."
"Of course." Deacon plucked a blade of grass and placed it in his
mouth. There was rather a constrained silence for a moment.
"I didn't know you came from my city, Deacon. I--Jane Bostwick told
me about you last night."
"I see. I used to know her." Inwardly Deacon cursed his natural
inability to converse easily, partly fearing that Doane would
mistake his reticence for embarrassment in his presence, or on the
other hand set him down as churlish and ill bred.
For his part Doane seemed a bit ill at ease.
"I didn't know, of course, anything Jane told me. If I had, of course,
I'd have looked you up more at the college."
"We're both busy there in our different ways."
Doane stood awkwardly for a moment and then walked away, not knowing
that however he may have felt about the conversation, he had at
least increased his stature in the mind of Jim Deacon.
Next day on the river Junior Doane's desperation at the outset
brought upon his head the criticism of the coach.
"Doane! Doane! You're rushing your slide. Finish out your stroke,
for heaven's sake."
Deacon, watching the oarsman's face, saw it grow rigid, saw his
mouth set. Well he knew the little tragedy through which Doane was
living.
Doane did better after that. The second boat gave the varsity some
sharp brushes while the coxswains barked and the coach shouted
staccato objurgation and comment through his megaphone, and the
rival oarsmen swung backward and forward in the expenditure of
ultimate power and drive.
But Jim Deacon was the man for varsity stroke. There was not the
least doubt about that. The coach could see it; the varsity could
feel it; but of them all Deacon alone knew why. He knew that Doane
was practically as strong an oar as he was, certainly as finished.
And Doane's experience was greater. The difficulty as Deacon grasped
it was that the boy had not employed all the material of his
experience. The coxswain, Seagraves, was a snappy little chap, with
an excellent opinion of his head. But Deacon had doubts as to his
racing sense. He could shoot ginger into his men, could lash them
along with a fine rhythm, but in negotiating a hard-fought race he
had his shortcomings. At least so Deacon had decided in the brushes
against the varsity shell when he was stroking the second varsity.
Deacon thanked no coxswain to tell him how to row a race, when to
sprint, when to dog along at a steady, swinging thirty; nor did he
require advice on the pacing and general condition of a rival crew.
As he swung forward for the catch, his practice was to turn his head
slightly to one side, chin along the shoulder, thus gaining through
the tail of his eye a glimpse of any boat that happened to be abeam,
slightly ahead or slightly astern. This glance told him everything
he wished to know. The coach did not know the reason for this
peculiarity in Deacon's style, but since it did not affect his rowing,
he very wisely said nothing. To his mind the varsity boat had at
last begun to arrive, and this was no time for minor points.
Two days before the Shelburne race the Baliol varsity in its final
time-trial came within ten seconds of equalling the lowest
downstream trial-record ever established--a record made by a
Shelburne eight of the early eighties. There was no doubt in the
mind of any one about the Baliol crew quarters that Deacon would be
the man to set the pace for his university in the supreme test
swiftly approaching.
News of Baliol's improved form began to be disseminated in the daily
press by qualified observers of rowing form who were beginning to
flock to the scene of the regatta from New York, Philadelphia, and
various New England cities. Dr. Nicholls was reticent, but no one
could say that his demeanour was marked by gloom. Perhaps his
optimism would have been more marked had the information he
possessed concerning Shelburne been less disturbing. As a fact there
was every indication that the rival university would be represented
by one of the best crews in her history--which was to say a very
great deal. In truth, Baliol rowing enthusiasts had not seen their
shell cross the line ahead of a Shelburne varsity boat in three
consecutive years, a depressing state of affairs which in the
present season had filled every Baliol rowing man with grim
determination and the graduates with alternate hope and despair.
"Jim," said the coach, drawing Deacon from the float upon which he
had been standing, watching the antics of a crew of former Baliol
oarsmen who had come from far and wide to row the mile race of
"Gentlemen's Eights" which annually marked the afternoon preceding
the classic regatta day, "Jim, you're not worried at all, are you?
You're such a quiet sort of a chap, I can't seem to get you."
Deacon smiled faintly.
"No, I'm not worried--not a bit, sir. I mean I'm going to do my best,
and if that's good enough, why--well, we win."
"I want you to do more than your best to-morrow, Jim. It's got to be
a super-effort. You're up against a great Shelburne crew, the
greatest I ever saw--that means twelve years back. I wouldn't talk
to every man this way, but I think you're a stroke who can stand
responsibility. I think you're a man who can work the better when he
knows the size of his job. It's a big one, boy--the biggest I've
ever tackled."
"Yes, sir."
The coach studied him a minute.
"How do you feel about beating Shelburne? What I mean," he went on as
the oarsman regarded him, puzzled, "is, would it break your heart to
lose? Is the thought of being beaten so serious that you can't--that
you won't consider it?"
"No sir, I won't consider it. I don't go into anything without
wanting to come out ahead. I've worked three years to get into the
varsity. I realize the position you've given me will help me, make
me stand out after graduation, mean almost as much as my
diploma--provided we can win."
"What about Baliol? Do you think of the college, too, and what a
victory will mean to her? What defeat will mean?"
"Oh," Deacon shrugged; "of course," he went on a bit carelessly,
"we want to see Baliol on top as often----" He stopped, then broke
into a chuckle as the stroke of the gentlemen's eight suddenly
produced from the folds of his sweater a bottle from which he drank
with dramatic unction while his fellow-oarsmen clamoured to share
the libation and the coxswain abused them all roundly.
The eyes of the coach never left the young man's face. But he said
nothing while Deacon took his fill of enjoyment of the jovial scene,
apparently forgetting the sentence which he had broken in the middle.
But that evening something of the coach's meaning came to Deacon as
he sat on a rustic bench watching the colours fade from one of those
sunset skies which have ever in the hearts of rowing men who have
ever spent a hallowed June on the heights of that broad placid stream.
The Baliol graduates had lost their race against the gentlemen of
Shelburne, having rowed just a bit worse than their rivals. And now
the two crews were celebrating their revival of the ways of youth
with a dinner provided by the defeated eight. Their laughter and
their songs went out through the twilight and were lost in the
recesses of the river. One song with a haunting melody caught
Deacon's attention; he listened to get the words.
Then raise the rosy goblet high,
The senior's chalice and belie
The tongues that trouble and defile,
For we have yet a little while
To linger, you and youth and I,
In college days.
A group of oarsmen down on the lawn caught up the song and sent it
winging through the twilight, soberly, impressively, with
ever-surging harmony. College days! For a moment a dim light burned
in the back of his mind. It went out suddenly. Jim Deacon shrugged
and thought of the morrow's race. It was good to know he was going
to be a part of it. He could feel the gathering of enthusiasm,
exhilaration in the atmosphere--pent-up emotion which on the morrow
would burst like a thunderclap. In the quaint city five miles down
the river hotels were filling with the vanguard of the boat-race
throng--boys fresh from the poetry of Commencement; their older
brothers, their fathers, their grandfathers, living again the thrill
of youth and the things thereof. And mothers and sisters and
sweethearts! Deacon's nerves tingled pleasantly in response to the
glamour of the hour.
"Oh, Jim Deacon!"
"Hello!" Deacon turned his face toward the building whence the voice
came.
"Somebody wants to see you on the road by the bridge over the
railroad."
"See me? All right."
Filled with wonder, Deacon walked leisurely out of the yard and then
reaching the road, followed in the wake of an urchin of the
neighbourhood who had brought the summons, and could tell Deacon
only that it was some one in an automobile.
It was, in fact, Jane Bostwick.
"Jump up here in the car, won't you, Jim?" Her voice was somewhat
tense. "No, I'm not going to drive," she added as Deacon hesitated.
"We can talk better."
"Have you heard from your father lately?" she asked as the young man
sprang into the seat at her side.
He started.
"No, not in a week. Why, is there anything the matter with him?"
"Of course not." She touched him lightly upon the arm. "You knew that
Mr. Bell, cashier of the National Penn Bank, had died?"
"No. Is that so! That's too bad." Then suddenly Deacon sat erect.
"By George! Father is one of the assistant cashiers there. I wonder
if he'll be promoted." He turned upon the girl. "Is that what you
wanted to tell me?"
She waited a bit before replying.
"No--not exactly that."
"Not exactly----What do you mean?"
"Do you know how keen Mr. Doane, I mean Junior's father is on rowing?
Well,"--as Deacon nodded,--"have you thought how he might feel
toward the father of the man who is going to sit in his son's seat
in the race to-morrow? Would it make him keen to put that father in
Mr. Bell's place?"
Deacon's exclamation was sharp.
"Who asked you to put that thought in my mind?"
"Ah!" Her hand went out, lying upon his arm. "I was afraid you were
going to take it that way. Mother was talking this afternoon. I
thought you should know. As for Junior Doane, I'm frank to admit I'm
awfully keen about him. But that isn't why I came here. I remember
how close you and your father used to be. I--I thought perhaps you'd
thank me, if--if----"
"What you mean is that because I have beaten Doane out for stroke,
his father may be sore and not promote my father at the bank."
"There's no 'may' about it. Mr. Doane will be sore. He'll be sore at
Junior, of course. But he'll be sore secretly at you, and where
there is a question of choice of cashier between _your_ father and
another man--even though the other man has not been so long in the
bank--how do you think his mind will work; I mean, if you lose? Of
course, if you can win, then I am sure everything will be all right.
You must----"
"If I can win! What difference would that----" He stopped suddenly.
"I've caught what you mean." He laughed bitterly. "Parental jealousy.
All right! All right!"
"Jim, I don't want you----"
"Don't bother. I've heard all I can stand, Jane. Thank you." He
lurched out of the car and hurried away.
She called him. No answer. Waiting a moment, the girl sighed,
touched the self-starter and drove away.
Deacon had no idea of any lapse of time between the departure of the
car and himself in his cot prepared for sleep--with, however, no
idea that sleep would come. His mood was pitiable. His mind was a
mass of whirling thoughts in the midst of which he could recognize
pictures of his boyhood, a little boy doing many things--with a hand
always tucked within the fingers of a great big man who knew
everything, who could do everything, who could always explain all the
mysteries of the big, strange, booming world. There were many such
pictures, pictures not only relating to boyhood, but to his own
struggle at Baliol, to the placid little home in Philadelphia and
all that it had meant, all that it still meant, to his father, to
his mother, to him, Any act of his that would bring sorrow or dismay
or the burden of defeated hope to that home!
But on the other hand, the morrow was to bring him the crown of
toilsome years, was to make his name one to conjure with wherever
Baliol was loved or known. He knew what the varsity _cachet_ would
do for his prospects in the world. And after all, he had his own
life to live, had he not? Would not the selfish, or rather the
rigorous, settlement of this problem, be for the best in the end,
since his making good would simply be making good for his father and
his mother? But how about his father's chance for making good on his
own account?
A comrade in the cot adjoining heard a groan.
"Eh! Are you sick, Deacon? Are you all right?"
"Sure--dreaming," came the muffled reply.
There was something unreal to Deacon about the morning. The sunlight
was filled with sinister glow; the voices of the rowing men were
strange; the whole environment seemed to have changed. It was
difficult for Jim Deacon to look upon the bronzed faces of the
fellows about the breakfast table, upon the coach with his stiff
moustache and glittering eyeglasses--difficult to look upon them and
realize that within a few hours his name would be anathema to them,
that forever where loyal men of Baliol gather he would be an outcast,
a pariah.
That was what he would be--an outcast. For he had come to his
decision: Just what he would do he did not know. He did not know
that he would not stroke the Baliol varsity. Out of all the welter
of thought and travail had been resolved one dominant idea. His
father came first: there was no evading it. With all the
consequences that would follow the execution of his decision he was
familiar. He had come now to know what Baliol meant to him as a
place not only of education, but a place to be loved, honoured,
revered. He knew what his future might be. But--his father came first.
Arising from the breakfast-table, he spoke to but one man, Junior
Doane.
"Doane," he said, drawing him to one side, "you will row at stroke
this afternoon."
The man stared at him. "Are you crazy, Deacon?"
"No, not crazy. I'm not feeling well; that's all."
"But look here, Deacon--you want to see the coach. You're off your
head or something. Wait here, just a minute." As Doane hurried away
in search of Dr. Nicholls, Deacon turned blindly through the yard
and so out to the main road leading to a picturesque little river
city about nine miles up the stream.
June was at her loveliest in this lovable country with its walled
fields, its serene uplands and glowing pastures, its lush river
meadows and wayside flowers. But of all this Deacon marked nothing
as with head down he tramped along with swift, dogged stride. Up the
river three or four miles farther on was the little city of which he
had so often heard but never seen, the little city of Norton, so
like certain English river-cities according to a veteran Oxford
oarsman who had visited the Baliol quarters the previous season.
Deacon had an interest in strange places; he had an eye for the
picturesque and the colourful. He would wander about the place,
filling his mind with impressions. He had always wanted to go to
Norton; it had seemed like a dream city to him.
He was in fact striding along in the middle of the road when the
horn of a motorcar coming close behind startled him. As he turned,
the vehicle sped up to his side and then stopped with a grinding of
brakes.
Dr. Nicholls, the coach, rose to his full height in the roadster and
glared down at Deacon, while Junior Doane, who had been driving,
stared fixedly over the wheel. The coach's voice was merely a series
of profane roars. He had ample lungs, and the things he said seemed
to echo far and wide. His stentorian anger afforded so material a
contrast to the placid environment that Deacon stood dazed under the
vocal avalanche, hearing but a blur of objurgation.
"Eh?" He paused as Junior Doane placed an admonishing hand upon his
arm.
"I beg your pardon, Doctor; but I don't think that is the right way.
May I say something to Deacon?"
The coach, out of breath, nodded and gestured, sinking into his seat.
"Look here, Jim Deacon, we've come to take you back. You can't buck
out the race this way, you know. It isn't done. Now, wait a minute!"
he cried sharply as the boy in the road made to speak. "I know why
you ran away. Jane Bostwick called me up and told me everything. She
hadn't realized quite what she was doing----"
"She--she bungled everything."
"Bungled! What do you mean, Dr. Nicholls?"
"Nothing--nothing! You young idiot, don't you realize you're trying
to kill yourself for life? Jump into the car."
"I'm not going to row." Deacon's eyes smoldered upon the two.
Studying him a moment, Dr. Nicholls suddenly grasped the seriousness
of Deacon's mood. He leaped from the car and walked up to him,
placing a hand upon his shoulder.
"Look here, my boy: You've let a false ideal run away with you. Do
you realize that some twenty-five thousand people throughout this
country are having their interests tossed away by you? You represent
them. They didn't ask you to. You came out for the crew and worked
until you won a place for yourself, a place no one but you can fill.
There are men, there are families on this riverside to-day, who have
traveled from San Francisco, from all parts of the country, to see
Baliol at her best. There are thousands who have the right to ask us
that Shelburne is not permitted to win this afternoon. Do you
realize your respons----"
Deacon raised his hand.
"I've heard it said often, Dr. Nicholls, that any one who gets in
Cephas Doane's way gets crushed. I'm not afraid of him, nor of any
one else, on my own account; but I'm afraid of him because of my
father. My father is getting to be an old man. Do you think I am
going to do anyth----" Deacon's voice, which had been gathering in
intensity, broke suddenly. He couldn't go on.
"Jim Deacon!" There was a note of exhilaration in Junior Doane's
voice. He hastily climbed out of the car and joined the coach at
Deacon's side. "I'm not going to defend my father now. No one knows
him as I do; no one knows as I do the great big stuff that is in him.
He and I have always been close, and----"
"Then you know how he'd feel about any one who took your place in
the boat. He can't hurt me. But he can break my father's heart----"
"Deacon, is that the opinion you have of my father!"
"Tell me the truth, Doane; is there the chance under the conditions
that with a choice between two men in the bank he might fail to see
Father? Isn't it human nature for a man as dominant and strong as he
is, who has always had or got most of the things he wants, to feel
that way?"
"Perhaps. But not if you can win out against Shelburne. Can't you
see your chance, Deacon? Go in and beat Shelburne; Father'll be so
glad he'll fall off the observation-train. You know how he hates
Shelburne. Any soreness he has about my missing out at stroke will
be directed at me--and it won't be soreness, merely regret. Don't you
get it?"
"And if we lose----"
"If we lose, there's the chance that we're all in the soup."
"I'm not, if I keep out of this thing----"
"If we lose with _me_ at stroke, do you suppose it will help you or
any one related to you with my father when he learns that Baliol
_would probably have won with you stroking_?
"My Lord, Jim Deacon," Doane went on as the other did not reply,
"do you suppose this is any fun for me, arguing with you to swing an
oar this afternoon when I would give my heart's blood to swing it in
your place?"
"Why do you do it, then?"
"Why do I do it? Because I love Baliol. Because her interests stand
above mine. Because more than anything I want to see her win. I
didn't feel this way when you beat me out for stroke. I'll admit it.
I didn't show my feelings, but I was thinking of nothing but my
licking----"
"Ah!"
"Just a minute, Jim. I didn't realize the bigness of the thing,
didn't appreciate that what I wanted to do didn't count for a damn.
Baliol, only Baliol! It all came to me when you bucked out. Baliol
is all that counts, Jim. If I can help her win by rooting from the
observation-car, all right! But--don't think it's any fun for me
urging you to come back and row. For I wanted to row this race, old
boy. I--I----"
Doane's voice faltered. "But I can't; that's all. Baliol needs a
better man--needs you. As for you, you've no right to consider
anything else. You go in--and win."
"Win!" Jim Deacon stood in the road, rigid, his voice falling to a
whisper. "Win!" Into his eyes came a vacant expression. For a moment
the group stood in the middle of the road as though transfixed. Then
the coach placed his hand upon Deacon's arm, gently.
"Come Jim," he said.
The afternoon had gone silently on. Jim Deacon sat on the veranda of
the crew-quarters, his eyes fixed upon the river. Some of the crew
were trying to read; others lounged about talking in low voices.
Occasionally the referee's launch would appear off the float, the
official exchanging some words with the coach while the oarsmen
watched eagerly. Then the launch would turn and disappear.
"Too rough yet, boys. They're going to postpone another hour." Twice
had the coach brought this word to the group of pent-up young men
who in a manner of speaking were sharing the emotions of the
condemned awaiting the executioner's summons. Would the up-river
breeze never subside and give them conditions that would be
satisfactory to the meticulous referee?
Deacon lurched heavily in his seat.
"What difference does it make so long as the shells won't sink?" he
asked.
"We're ready," replied Dick Rollins. "It's Shelburne holding things
up; she wants smooth water, of course. It suits me, though. Things
will soften up by sunset."
"Sunset!" Deacon scowled at the western skies. "Well, sunset isn't
so far off as it was."
Word came, as a matter of fact, shortly after five o'clock. The coach,
with solemn face, came up to the cottage, bringing the summons.
After that for a little while Jim Deacon passed through a series of
vague impressions rather than living experience. There was the swift
changing of clothes in the cavernous boathouse, the bearing of the
boat high overhead to the edge of the float, the splash as it was
lowered into the water. Mechanically he leaned forward to lace the
stretcher-shoes, letting the handle of his oar rest against his
stomach; mechanically he tried to slide, tested the oarlock.
Then some one gripped the blade of his oar, pushing gently outward.
The shell floated gingerly out into the stream.
"Starboard oars, paddle." Responsive to the coxswain's sharp command
Deacon plied his blade, and in the act there came to him clarity of
perception. He was out here to win, to win not only for Baliol, but
for himself, for his father. There could be no thought of not winning;
the imminence of the supreme test had served to fill him with the
consciousness of indomitable strength, to thrill his muscles with
the call for tremendous action.