“What’re you doing here, Bump?” asked Mac. “You don’t suppose any crew could pull you, do you?” “I’m out for the exercise,” responded Bumpus, unruffled. “What’re _you_ doing here? You don’t suppose you could pull any one, do you?” “I’m out for the fun,” explained Mac. “There’s nothing doing, and I’m tired of the gym.” These two, of course, were among those considered sure not to make it. Where Hardie stood, no one could tell until he began to row on the machines, and then the experts opined unanimously that his chances were slim. The captain arranged the candidates in fours to suit himself. There was a first four, which Talbot stroked, made up of the fellows left in school who had rowed in the first or second boat the year before. Then a second containing those of unofficial rank but known experience; and after these, squads of four taken without much care in grouping. All the instruction they received was such as could be given by the captain or his aids. Roger got a place at two in the third squad, and did what he could to carry out the directions given him—pull his stroke through hard all the way, recover sharply, start his slides back with a gradual, deliberate movement, and use his legs. It was all new and strange to him, so totally different from anything he had tried before that experience in rowing in an ordinary skiff with an ordinary pair of oars seemed of no help whatever. He perceived his awkwardness quite as clearly as the bystanders who whispered together as they watched him,—and he felt it besides, as they could not. The secret ambition which he had cherished since the day when Deering made the speech in school assumed the form of an absurd presumption. But he had no thought of giving up. Bumpus got his exercise, and Mac his fun. The others got fun, too, when Bumpus rowed, for he proved the jolliest clumsy porpoise that ever tried to sit in a boat. He was too big for his seat. He couldn’t get forward to begin stroke, and when he finished, the chances were even that he couldn’t recover at all. His candidacy was of short duration. Talbot had to get rid of him to keep his squad under control. Mac, on the other hand, took to the practice as if he had done it for years. Every suggestion made to him was translated immediately into his stroke. From catch to finish, from recovery to catch, his stroke seemed one blended, graceful movement. “What a pity he isn’t bigger!” said Talbot to Eaton, who stood beside him. “He’s a natural oarsman.” The second day McDowell stroked the third crew, while Hardie blundered along on the fourth. A fortnight later he was still blundering along, with nothing to sustain his courage but a resolution to hang on as long as there was anything to hang to.