The game was over, and the players were arguing noisily about the score—Mike had made the E-R’s pay dearly for the violence offered to the sacred person of the umpire—before Roger bethought himself of his illness. He was apprised of it now by a sensation of faintness, and a startling dizziness that fell upon him suddenly and for the moment frightened him with the fear that he was the victim of one of the “spells” to which, as he vaguely knew, people with weak hearts are subject. But the fear was overborne by a fierce determination that surged up in a defiant flood, insisting that the undesired was the untrue. It was not his heart! His heart was as strong as any one’s, whatever his father might fancy. He would not be ill, he would row! He set his teeth and clenched his fists and steered his way straight for the house. There he threw himself into a chair in the common room, and taking up a paper, turned to the sports page, on which a reporter had given his opinion as to the probable outcome of the schoolboy races. Newbury was picked for first place, with a good fighting chance for Bainbridge Latin,—both coached by Lanning. Westcott’s was the best of the Caffrey crews, but did not look like a winner; the Back Bay boys rowed in good form, but they lacked the power of the big men in the other boats. While form was unquestionably an important element in the success of a crew, mere style could never take the place of endurance and strength. So much Roger at last comprehended after several readings and with much effort to control his trembling hands and wavering eyes. He put down the paper in disgust, and resting his heavy head on his hand, mingled in a dizzy confusion despairing self-reproach and genuine prayers for help. The dizziness had worn off, but the weakness still remained, and the consciousness of this weakness undermined the props of determination as fast as they were set up. The boys were gathering for dinner; they threw curious and not unsympathetic glances at the disconsolate figure in the lounging chair, and talked in tones uncommonly subdued of the effect Hardie’s illness would have on the chances of the crew. Presently Felton came in from the long corridor, surveyed the room, and catching sight of Hardie in the chair slapped him roughly on the shoulder. Roger started and shot a menacing look at the offender. “What’s the matter with you?” “What’s the matter with _you_?” retorted Felton. “Pete wants you at the telephone.” Roger dragged himself to the telephone. “Is that you, Roger?” sounded Talbot’s clear voice. “Yes.” “How are you? They told me this afternoon that you were under the weather. You aren’t going to be sick, are you?” “No, it’s all right. I’m better to-night.” “That’s good. Be careful what you eat, and get to bed early. We can’t afford to lose you. They assigned places this afternoon for the trials. We got the outside.” “That’s bad, isn’t it?”