Downs glanced a little doubtfully at his men. “I think so.” “You’ll do it easier next time,” asserted the distinguished man. “A defeat like this breaks the spirit of a crew. What you want now is a good rest. I’ll see if I can’t get you a holiday for to-morrow.” “That would be great! Do you think you can?” President John’s knowing smile suggested mysterious reaches of influence which he was much too modest to mention. “I guess it can be arranged. We can’t afford to take any risks. The first name on that cup has got to be Newbury Latin.” Westcott’s paddled in to the float, turning their boat over directly to Bainbridge Latin. Roger stripped for the shower in silence with lowering face. “How do you feel now it’s over?” asked Pete, after staring for some seconds at his sullen companion. “All in?” “No! Mad and disgusted!” “You’ve nothing to be disgusted about,” said Eaton. “Rust says you pulled like a fiend the whole way. I’m the one to be disgusted. I didn’t row myself out at all.” “That’s just it! If Pete had put up the stroke two minutes earlier, we’d have left ’em behind half a length! Now they’ll crow and the newspapers will call us a sandy but outclassed crew, and half the fellows will believe it.” “Cut out the growling!” commanded the captain. “What I did was right, and I’d do it again. I didn’t know how you fellows were standing it, and there was no use in killing ourselves, with the finals on for day after to-morrow. But I’ll give you one sure pointer: you’ll have all the spurting you want on Friday.” “Bring on your spurt!” snapped the bow oar. “We’ll meet you.” Roger felt calmer after his shower—calm enough to regret his rash boast. Pete had the pluck inherent in good blood, the indomitable spirit that faces odds undaunted, and only fails when brain and body can no longer serve it,—and Pete was not one to forget. It was a foolish thing to say, especially for an inexperienced oar who had rowed but one race in his life, but as the boast could not now be retracted, the only course for Roger to pursue was to carry it out. This he secretly resolved to do if his good-for-nothing legs didn’t go back on him. The papers next morning were scanned with eagerness. They generally considered that first place in the finals would lie between Bainbridge Latin, which had run away from its rivals in the second heat, and Newbury, with Westcott’s a good third. All agreed that Westcott’s was likely to win the race for seconds. “It’s a wonder they concede that much,” said Pete, sarcastically. “They always act surprised if we win anything.” Dickie Sumner, made audacious by the knowledge that he was the bearer of important news, came pushing into the group of older boys that filled the big bay window. “Have you heard about the Newbury crew’s getting a holiday?” he demanded. His brother Jack seized him roughly. “What is it?”