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.