“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.