“The very best crew on the river!” he declared with emphatic spacing of words and savage jerks of the head. “Look at the weight and strength in that boat! Why, they pulled away from Westcott’s on Wednesday without half trying. It was just a little practice spin for ’em. Then I got ’em a holiday yesterday at the shore, and what did they do? Trotted round on the rocks and played ball in the red-hot sun in sleeveless shirts! Burnt their arms raw, of course. They didn’t get a wink of sleep all last night.” “Westcott’s had it on ’em to-day all right”, remarked the reporter. “That crew looked pretty good to me!” “It’s a fair enough sort of a crew, but they had luck and we didn’t. That’s just what beat us, hard luck.” Smith turned away to leave the launch, which was already fast. The _Ledger_ man glanced after him and winked at his companion. “Sore!” said the latter, tersely. By this time the Westcott oarsmen had revived and brought their boat in to the float. Here, in the forefront of the enthusiasts, stood a tall, deep-chested young man, wearing a hatband with the revered crimson and black vertical stripes, who shook hands with each weary rower as he left the boat and gave him a personal compliment which was destined to remain a cherished memory when the general events of school life should have faded into the limbo of things forgotten. Then Deering returned to the launch, which was soon speeding up the river to its moorings; and the Westcott crew, already recovering from the grinding strain through the quick recuperative power of sturdy boyhood, and too happy to heed their exhaustion, carried their boat into the house, where they gave themselves up to the refreshing luxury of the shower bath and the delight of mutual congratulations. The next day was a happy one for the boys at Westcott’s. From the older fellows who hailed the triumph of their fortunate mates with a delight untouched by envy, to the little chaps in knee trousers in whose eyes the members of the first crew were as demigods, complacency and pride pervaded the school like a mild intoxication. Mr. Westcott made a speech of congratulation in which he expressed himself as especially pleased that such excellent crews had been developed without interference with the regular daily work—a sentiment which the boys, if they did not appreciate, were, under the circumstances, willing to forgive. Pete, too, made a speech—a jerky, inartistic, vehement little harangue, strong in patriotism though weak in rhetoric, which was uproariously applauded. Then the cheers were let loose, a din that made the windows rattle and caused the neighbors for half a block to regret that they had not fixed upon an earlier date for migrating to the quiet of the country. “_It clamor cœlo_,” muttered Mr. Stevens, senior classical master, with a quiet smile, and he stole away to his own recitation room to save his ear-drums.