“I knew that Merrill would win, for you know I have rowed often with him; but I feared he was playing too much after we got started. “He said to me that I would beat Clemmons, and I did, I am glad to say; but Merrill is a wonder.” “He is, indeed,” chimed in McNulty. “He said as he passed me: “‘Pardon me, McNulty, but I wish to catch up with the procession.’” “And he did,” said Bascomb. “The trouble was the procession did not keep up with the music Merrill played; the time was too rapid,” Herbert Nazro said. “How it cuts Clemmons.” “Yes, he feels his defeat more keenly than Merrill enjoys his victory--here comes Clemmons now.” And Clemmons walked up, his face flushed from exercise, and a look in his sunken eyes as of an overworked man. “Well, Clemmons, you got one of the prizes,” said Byrd Bascomb. “Give it to McNulty, for I take only first prize or none,” was the ill-tempered response. Bascomb’s face flushed, and he said: “You would have won if it had not been for one thing, Clemmons.” “What was that?” eagerly asked Scott Clemmons, catching at a straw of hope. “You did not row fast enough.” A laugh followed this, and Clemmons responded: “Merrill crossed my bow and kept me back.” “He did nothing of the kind.” “He did not cross my bow?” “Yes, he did that, and he gave you plenty of water, as every man here will testify. The act was against him, not you, for it retarded him; yet he recovered his speed and landed ahead of you. He crossed Perry’s bow also, and yet he makes no such claim as a foul.” “I’ll admit he is a wonderful oarsman, and I said so before the race; but still I hoped to beat him.” “You are also a superb oarsman, Clemmons, as is Perry, McNulty, and others, but Merrill is a wonder, for he came in the freshest man of the lot.” “He ought to row fast and long, for he is a fisherman,” growled Clemmons. “Was, my friend, not is; for he is now a cadet and a gentleman, as all are supposed to be, though now and then we catch a black sheep in the fold, like your roommate, Breslin,” and Byrd Bascomb walked away after delivering this shot, for all knew how sensitive Clemmons was about his former friend, Barney Breslin. Seeing that his ill-natured remarks about Mark’s splendid victory would meet only with rebuke, Scott Clemmons said: “Well, I must give in that he is physically my superior; but there are three things I will have a chance to get even with him on.” “What are they?” asked Herbert Nazro, in an interested manner. “Swordsmanship, pistol practice and the mental examinations.” “Well, we will see,” was the reply of Nazro, and as he walked away with Dillingham he said: “I would not be surprised if Clemmons did carry off the honors of his class at examination, and he has the name of being a dead shot and splendid hand with the sword.” The boat race was the talk of the cadets for some days, and then the shadows of the final struggle for mental supremacy occupied every mind.