  “Westcott’s by six feet!” announced Mr. Henderson, judge at the finish, as the crowd pressed about him to learn the official verdict. Mac and his men burst forth in a howl of joy. Trask threw up his arms and yelled the news across the water to the crew of the quinquereme, who went wild with excitement. Their historic boat, which had escaped the missiles of war unscathed, very nearly succumbed to the perils of peace. The Veritas, swinging round to the float after the laggard crews had crept in, found the cutter shoved directly into its path through the efforts of two lads who continued to chop the water vehemently while they yelled, as oblivious to the direction they were taking as stokers in the hold of a steamship to the course laid down by the navigator. The Varsity manager, who was steering the launch, backed his engine and saved the cutter for another race day. Meantime Billy was scribbling notes on a block of yellow paper, Deering was smiling in dignified exultation among his crew, and President John, his face white with ill-suppressed rage, was reviling to two curious reporters the folly of the Newbury oarsmen who had thrown away a sure victory. “The very best crew on the river!” he declared with emphatic spacing of words and savage jerks of the head. “Look at the weight and strength in that boat! Why, they pulled away from Westcott’s on Wednesday without half trying. It was just a little practice spin for ’em. Then I got ’em a holiday yesterday at the shore, and what did they do? Trotted round on the rocks and played ball in the red-hot sun in sleeveless shirts! Burnt their arms raw, of course. They didn’t get a wink of sleep all last night.” “Westcott’s had it on ’em to-day all right”, remarked the reporter. “That crew looked pretty good to me!” “It’s a fair enough sort of a crew, but they had luck and we didn’t. That’s just what beat us, hard luck.” Smith turned away to leave the launch, which was already fast. The Ledger man glanced after him and winked at his companion. “Sore!” said the latter, tersely. By this time the Westcott oarsmen had revived and brought their boat in to the float. Here, in the forefront of the enthusiasts, stood a tall, deep-chested young man, wearing a hatband with the revered crimson and black vertical stripes, who shook hands with each weary rower as he left the boat and gave him a personal compliment which was destined to remain a cherished memory when the general events of school life should have faded into the limbo of things forgotten. Then Deering returned to the launch, which was soon speeding up the river to its moorings; and the Westcott crew, already recovering from the grinding strain through the quick recuperative power of sturdy boyhood, and too happy to heed their exhaustion, carried their boat into the house, where they gave themselves up to the refreshing luxury of the shower bath and the delight of mutual congratulations. The next day was a happy one for the boys at Westcott’s. From the older fellows who hailed the triumph of their fortunate mates with a delight untouched by envy, to the little chaps in knee trousers in whose eyes the members of the first crew were as demigods, complacency and pride pervaded the school like a mild intoxication. Mr. Westcott made a speech of congratulation in which he expressed himself as especially pleased that such excellent crews had been developed without interference with the regular daily work—a sentiment which the boys, if they did not appreciate, were, under the circumstances, willing to forgive. Pete, too, made a speech—a jerky, inartistic, vehement little harangue, strong in patriotism though weak in rhetoric, which was uproariously applauded. Then the cheers were let loose, a din that made the windows rattle and caused the neighbors for half a block to regret that they had not fixed upon an earlier date for migrating to the quiet of the country. “It clamor coelo,” muttered Mr. Stevens, senior classical master, with a quiet smile, and he stole away to his own recitation room to save his ear-drums. Almost as noisy was the welcome given a few days later to the cup itself, when it made its second appearance before the school, coming this time for a year’s sojourn. President John, who had gulped down the bitter medicine which had been forced upon him, and now was trying to forget the taste of it, sent with the trophy a flowery note which Mr. Westcott read to an appreciative audience. “I’ll bet he swore when he wrote that,” whispered Wilmot to his seat-mate. Pete nodded. “It must have come hard. When he showed the thing to us last fall, I never expected to see it here again.” “They probably can’t keep it another year,” said Steve, loftily. “There won’t be much here after we leave.” But the little boys of big faith, in the front seats, who were straining their eyes to make out the inscription on the first shield, had not shared the anxieties of their elders, nor did they now worry about the year to come. They had known all along that their champions could be trusted to bring the school colors out on top, while as for the future—what future was there but the June examinations and the summer vacation? One more formality had still to be attended to before the athletic season could be declared closed,—the election of a captain of the crew for the next year. It was merely a formality, for, since Roger Hardie was the only one of the five who would not graduate, the choice was strictly limited. “It’s a great honor to be captain of the Westcott crew,” said Roger, as he came downstairs with Pete after the meeting, “but I wish there had been some competition. It’s like winning a race by default.” “You didn’t do any defaulting in the race,” replied Talbot, somewhat illogically, “though I was a good deal troubled about you early in the season. I had a guilty conscience for several weeks.” “Why?” “Because I had prevented your being made captain of the eleven.” “I knew you did. You didn’t think I was fit for it. I didn’t blame you.” “Nonsense! I wanted you for the crew captain next year. I took long odds, and I couldn’t explain because I couldn’t be sure you’d make good. At one time I thought you never would.” Roger gave a laugh of contentment. “I was an awful dub at first. Wilmot wanted to fire me out of the pair-oar.” “And I wouldn’t let him,” said Pete, complacently. “I thought you had the stuff in you, if we could only bring it out. Next year you’ll be first lord of the school, and I shall be lost among six hundred freshmen.” “Lost!” echoed Roger, derisively. “Anybody can find you easy enough, if he’ll only search the freshman boat. Your seat will be down somewhere near the stern.” THE END.
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