“I know; but part of that is just--just put on, assumed, Trevor; when the crews get on the water it will be different. But, just the same,” he owned sorrowfully, “there is an unusual lack of rowing spirit among the fellows this year. I dare say it will happen that way now and then. Only I wish it hadn’t happened this year,” he added ruefully. “So do I, for your sake, old chap,” answered Trevor heartily as they climbed to their room. The head coach put in his appearance on the following Saturday afternoon, despite a heavy snow-storm that well-nigh blocked the roads, and by his brisk, businesslike manners put new life into the first squad, for the moment at least. Malcolm Kirk was a man of medium height, approaching forty years of age, with a good but not exaggerated breadth of chest and shoulder, and very serious and steady black eyes. His manner was usually contained and rather grave, and he possessed a widely noted habit of keeping his own mind and every one else’s fixed firmly for the time on the matter in hand, to the exclusion of all else. As an example of this, it was told of him that once, while coaching a college crew in a barge, he was lecturing a man in the waist on the subject of dropping the hands, when the barge struck a snag which ripped a hole in her. “You don’t get your oar out of the water clean, Four,” remonstrated the coach. “Drop the forearm as well as the hands.” The barge was by this time awash. “We’ve ripped a hole in the skin, sir,” called the coxswain. “Eh? Very careless,” answered the coach from the bow of the launch. “There, Four, that’s better. Now make your wrist turn sharper. Keep it up, keep it up; you’re doing better!” And the eight rowed the half-filled barge an eighth of a mile before Kirk was quite satisfied with the unfortunate Four’s work, and allowed the men to come out. To-day the first thing he noted was the presence of a new fellow at seven. “Where’s that man Taylor?” he asked of Dick. “He’s stopped training, Mr. Kirk; says he can’t keep up with his studies.” Kirk stared. “Nonsense, we must have him back; tell him so, Hope. Now, Six, that won’t do; don’t meet the oar that way, take it back to you; finish hard and full. Bow, you begin to slide forward too soon; start your swing first and let it carry the slide with it. Three, you’re doing better to-day. Keep the leg-power up to the last moment; knees down firm at the end of the stroke.” And Trevor, tugging heroically, hears, and begins to think that perhaps he _will_ learn the stroke eventually, after all! When work was over Kirk again brought up the subject of Taylor. “Yes, we must have him back, Hope; tell him so; make him understand that it’s necessary. He’s a good oar; fits into his place well; has lots of weight where he needs it.” “I’m afraid he won’t come back,” answered Dick. “He’s got it into his head that he can’t go in for rowing and pass his exams.”