“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.