Roy Taylor’s work was apparent when on the following Tuesday afternoon the candidates for the crew reported in the rowing-room at the gymnasium. Dick counted the assemblage over twice, but could make no more than nineteen, a sorry showing compared with last year; twenty men—including himself—from which to select two eights! But he was careful to let none of the discontent that he felt appear on his face.

“There aren’t very many of us, fellows,” he said cheerfully, “but I guess we all mean business, and that’s a good deal.”

Professor Beck entered at that moment, paused to remove his rubbers, and then surveyed the candidates through his glasses.

“Well, boys, are you all here?” His gaze traveled around the room. “But I see that you’re not. Four o’clock was the hour, wasn’t it, Hope?”

“Yes, sir; and it’s now a quarter after. I guess they’re all here that are coming.”

“Bless me, this won’t do! How many—four, six, ten, sixteen, twenty? Twenty men for two crews. What do you fellows think we’re going to race with this year, pair-oars?”

The candidates, perched about the room on window-sills and radiators, smiled, but were careful not to laugh aloud, since it was evident that the professor was thoroughly vexed.

“Hope, you’ll have to go among the fellows and work up some interest in the crews; and Taylor, you’re an old-crew man, you do the same; and the rest of you, too, I want you all to talk rowing, and next week I want as many more candidates on hand. This is perfect poppycock! Twenty men, indeed! Well, that’s all I’ve got to say to you; now listen to Captain Hope.” And the professor withdrew to a window, where he polished his glasses vigorously and made a number of the new candidates very nervous by the critical way in which he studied them.

“I’d like every fellow’s name before he leaves,” said Dick. “And I want to see every one here promptly at three o’clock next Wednesday afternoon. Meanwhile those of you who haven’t been examined for crew work will please attend to it. Have you set any special days, professor?”

“Yes, to-morrow and Saturday afternoons,” answered the latter, “between four and six.”

“You new fellows must understand that permits to take part in baseball and track games won’t answer for rowing, so please see Mr. Beck to-morrow if possible; if not, on Saturday. I hope that you’ll do as Mr. Beck has requested; I mean try and work up more of an interest in rowing; every fellow ought to be able to bring at least one other fellow with him next Wednesday. We’ve got a hard proposition before us this spring, but it’s by no means a hopeless one. We’ve beaten St. Eustace on the river before—often—and we can do it again; but it means lots of hard work, and any fellow that’s afraid of work might as well pull out now, for we can’t have any shirking. Last spring there was a good deal of trouble at the first of the season because the candidates—some of them, that is—tried to get out of preliminary work. That won’t do; the work on the weights at the beginning of the season is really important, and it’s got to be faced; and I tell you now that any fellow who won’t go through with it honestly isn’t wanted. But I don’t believe there are any of that sort here to-day, and I hope there won’t be next Wednesday. I guess that’s all I have to say. I hope every fellow will bear in mind the fact that in trying for the crew he is not only bettering his own physical condition and health, but standing by the school; he can’t do more for the honor of Hillton than by honest, sincere work on the crews. And it doesn’t make any difference whether he makes the varsity boat or the second; in either case he’s doing his best, doing his duty; for the fellow that rows with the second eight is helping to turn out a winning crew almost as much as though he rowed in the race with St. Eustace. I hope we’ll all pull together this year and that there won’t be any discord. I’ll do my level best, and I’ll trust you fellows to do yours; and if that is so I defy St. Eustace or any one else to beat us!”

The audience showed its approval of these sentiments by clapping, Taylor perhaps the loudest of all, and Dick, somewhat red in the face from his effort, smiled, and drawing a tablet from his pocket, proceeded to take the fellows’ names. Professor Beck settled his glasses again on his nose and approached a youth who during the proceedings had been perched comfortably on the top of a radiator, but who, having secured the entry of his name in the list of candidates, was now examining with interest the working of one of the rowing machines.

“You’re Nesbitt, aren’t you?” asked the professor.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever rowed any, Nesbitt?”

“Yes, as a youngster”—here the professor smiled slightly—“I used to paddle a bit; that was in England.”

“Ah, yes; I recollect you now. You won the last quarter in the relay race the other night; that was well run, my boy, although you’re rather too heavy for fast work. How was your wind when you finished?”

“It was rather short; the spurts tuckered me quite a bit.”

“Yes, I imagine you could get rid of eight pounds or so to good advantage. You’d better come and see me to-morrow and take your examination, so that I can put you to work on the weights as soon as possible. I’m glad you’re going to try for the crew; you look as though you were made for a rowing man.” He nodded smilingly and moved away, and Trevor, assuming an appearance of unconcern, while secretly much flattered by the professor’s attention, joined Dick, who had finished his list and was conversing with Roy Taylor and Crocker, a large, heavily built youth who had rowed at Number 6 in the second eight the preceding year. Taylor was speaking when Trevor approached.

“Why, last winter over forty fellows turned out, and now look at ’em! Great Scott! There’s no use trying to get a decent crew out of twenty men!”

Dick frowned, and Crocker offered a suggestion:

“Look here, the Hilltonian comes out in less than a week; what’s the matter with getting Singer to write a ripping editorial about the necessity for more candidates, and—and ‘asking the support of the entire student body,’ and all that sort of stuff? Maybe there’s still time; I’m blamed if I know when the paper goes to press.”

“That’s a good idea, Bob,” answered Dick. “And I’ll see Singer this evening. And meanwhile you fellows do what you can; you ought to be able to drum up lots of fellows, Taylor; you know plenty of them, and what you say has weight.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can, Hope, of course, but there doesn’t seem to be the usual interest in rowing this year.”

“I know; we’ve got to awaken interest. I’ll see you the last of the week and we’ll have another council of war. Going back to the room, Nesbitt?”

On their way across the Yard, which between the walks was a waste of heavily crusted snow upon which the afternoon sunlight flashed dazzlingly, the two boys were silent—Dick with the little creases in his forehead very deep, and Trevor kicking at the ice in a manner which suggested annoyance. When the dormitory was reached Trevor stopped and let go savagely at a small cake of ice, which, as it was securely frozen to the granite step, only resulted in an unpleasant jar to his foot. But the jar seemed to loosen his tongue, for he turned quickly to Dick as they passed into the building, and asked explosively:

“Is that chap Taylor all right?”

“Why? Have you heard anything?” asked Dick.

“No; only—only he looks as though he didn’t much like you, Hope; and then he talks so sick!”

“Sick?”

“Yes; I mean he talks as though he didn’t want the crew to be a success; haven’t you noticed it?”

“The trouble with Roy Taylor,” answered the other gravely as they passed into Number 16, “is that he hates to have any one else win out at anything. He has a mighty high opinion of Roy Taylor, you know. He wanted to be captain, and I don’t think he has ever forgiven me for beating him; but I guess he’ll come round in the end and do his best for the crew.”

Trevor didn’t look impressed with this last remark. He studied the flames awhile thoughtfully as he held his hands up to the warmth. Then:

“I see. I don’t fancy, then, he loves me much after the way I beat him Saturday night, eh?”

“I guess not,” answered Dick laughingly. “I ‘fancy’ we’re both down in his black book.”

“Yes.” Trevor turned away and rummaged among the dÉbris of the study table. “Seen my algebra? Never mind, here it is.” He drew a chair up before the fireplace and opened the book, only to lay it down again and deliver himself forcibly of the following declaration:

“Taylor may be as waxy with me as he likes, Hope, but he’s got to understand that if he interferes with this crew business there’s a plaguy lot of trouble ahead for him!”

“And for me, too,” thought Dick, as he gazed despondently at the slim list of candidates.