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?”