A group of oarsmen down on the lawn caught up the song and sent it winging through the twilight, soberly, impressively, with ever-surging harmony. College days! For a moment a dim light burned in the back of his mind. It went out suddenly. Jim Deacon shrugged and thought of the morrow's race. It was good to know he was going to be a part of it. He could feel the gathering of enthusiasm, exhilaration in the atmosphere--pent-up emotion which on the morrow would burst like a thunderclap. In the quaint city five miles down the river hotels were filling with the vanguard of the boat-race throng--boys fresh from the poetry of Commencement; their older brothers, their fathers, their grandfathers, living again the thrill of youth and the things thereof. And mothers and sisters and sweethearts! Deacon's nerves tingled pleasantly in response to the glamour of the hour. "Oh, Jim Deacon!" "Hello!" Deacon turned his face toward the building whence the voice came. "Somebody wants to see you on the road by the bridge over the railroad." "See me? All right." Filled with wonder, Deacon walked leisurely out of the yard and then reaching the road, followed in the wake of an urchin of the neighbourhood who had brought the summons, and could tell Deacon only that it was some one in an automobile. It was, in fact, Jane Bostwick. "Jump up here in the car, won't you, Jim?" Her voice was somewhat tense. "No, I'm not going to drive," she added as Deacon hesitated. "We can talk better." "Have you heard from your father lately?" she asked as the young man sprang into the seat at her side. He started. "No, not in a week. Why, is there anything the matter with him?" "Of course not." She touched him lightly upon the arm. "You knew that Mr. Bell, cashier of the National Penn Bank, had died?" "No. Is that so! That's too bad." Then suddenly Deacon sat erect. "By George! Father is one of the assistant cashiers there. I wonder if he'll be promoted." He turned upon the girl. "Is that what you wanted to tell me?" She waited a bit before replying. "No--not exactly that." "Not exactly----What do you mean?" "Do you know how keen Mr. Doane, I mean Junior's father is on rowing? Well,"--as Deacon nodded,--"have you thought how he might feel toward the father of the man who is going to sit in his son's seat in the race to-morrow? Would it make him keen to put that father in Mr. Bell's place?" Deacon's exclamation was sharp. "Who asked you to put that thought in my mind?" "Ah!" Her hand went out, lying upon his arm. "I was afraid you were going to take it that way. Mother was talking this afternoon. I thought you should know. As for Junior Doane, I'm frank to admit I'm awfully keen about him. But that isn't why I came here. I remember how close you and your father used to be. I--I thought perhaps you'd thank me, if--if----" "What you mean is that because I have beaten Doane out for stroke, his father may be sore and not promote my father at the bank."