“Nesbitt will do, I guess, after he’s been at it a little longer,” answered Dick. “Hang it all! I rowed like a kid to-day myself! I don’t know what’s got into me. I wish--by Jove! I honestly do wish that Taylor or anybody else was captain, Trevor!” “Rot! What kind of a captain would Taylor make, for goodness’ sake? Cheer up, my hearty; you’ll feel better after supper.” “Sha’n’t,” muttered Dick. “Oh, yes, you will. What you need is some nice cold roast beef, milk toast, egg muffins, peach marmalade, and a cup of cocoa; with plenty of mustard.” “In the cocoa?” grinned Dick. “Idiot! No, on the beef. That’s right, smile; keep it up; now you’re feeling better. And something tells me, Dick, that it’s pretty near time to wash our nice little hands and faces. Say, let’s cut lessons to-night and go over to the village and see Carl and Stewart, eh?” And so it was agreed. Spring vacation came, and for a week partially depopulated the academy, interfering sadly with crew work. Trevor joined his father in New York, and Stewart Earle went home; but Dick and Carl stuck to their posts, Dick on the river and Carl on the baseball diamond, where he was turning out a nine that was destined to be proudly remembered at Hillton for many years. Dick found himself in full authority during the vacation week, for Malcolm Kirk had not as yet taken up his residence in the village, and with no recitations to attend he was able to give almost his entire time to rowing affairs. Half of the first squad were away, but he filled the empty places from the second, put Crocker temporarily at stroke, and coached the impromptu crew from a small boat in which he rowed frantically about in efforts to secure satisfactory points of observation. One rather bleak afternoon he was in his tub just off the landing as the shell, returning from down the river, swept abreast of him. He stood up on the thwarts, balancing himself with an oar, in order to better view the work. “Seven, you’re rowing light,” he called. “You begin to lower your hands too early; your blade is half out of water at the finish. Five, you put your blade too deep.” The shell was passing now, and he raised his voice and unconsciously leaned forward. “Grip the water with the blade----” There was a splash and a cry from the handful of loiterers on the float; the tub rocked merrily; Dick’s cap floated off down-stream, and Dick had disappeared from sight. “Hold hard all!” yelled the cox. Then, “Back all!” But ere the shell had lost way enough to allow of its being paddled to the rescue, Dick had reappeared a few yards down-stream, had made hand over hand for his boat, and was clinging to the side, wiping the water from his face. “At an angle!” he shouted, continuing his instructions as though no interruption had occurred, “and then you won’t be likely to ‘slice.’ Take ’em along, Keene; and, Stroke, lengthen out a bit!”