“What’s the matter with Hardie?” asked Talbot, one day, as he walked down with Wilmot to the boat-house. “He doesn’t seem to be gaining at all.” “He’s just rotten,” answered Wilmot, despairingly. “A low-caste baboon would do better!” “He may get it yet,” said Talbot. “He may!” echoed Wilmot, derisively; “oh, yes, he may! But I’ll bet you a dollar to a cent that he won’t!” A fortnight passed: Bursley was making good in the first, and Mac had been promoted to stroke on the second, but Roger’s improvement was scarcely noticeable. He was beginning to fear that rowing was something for which he was physically unfitted, as a fat man for pole vaulting. In spite of his hardened muscles he became easily tired; his poor form wore on his back and wrists and arms. Good rowing is easy rowing: Roger’s was both bad and hard. Yet in spite of all discouragement he enjoyed the practice. It was interesting to struggle for the hoped-for improvement, even though the hope proved vain, to observe the other crews on the water, to rest on the oar, a little out of the channel, and watch the Varsity eight sweep magnificently by, with the nose of the coaching launch close at the shell’s rudder, the oarsmen’s bodies bending in beautiful unison, the water boiling back from the driving blades. Roger never saw Deering’s crew without a thrill of that awe which the subaltern feels when he stands in the presence of a famous general. It represented power, skill, and determination concentrated; in it was embodied a kind of majesty before which the schoolboy oars bowed with instinctive reverence. Every crew on the river gazed at the Varsity in rapt admiration, but the Varsity recognized the presence of no one but itself. One afternoon in early May, Coolidge turned the bow of the pair-oar upstream. For a mile Hardie’s oar played its old tricks, twisting in his hand and pulling under, tipping the boat, spoiling the stroke, filling with disgust and despair the hearts of the little crew. Near the Cottage Farm bridge they stopped to watch a college eight pass. When they started again, it occurred to Roger to see whether the rowlock would not carry his oar, and permit him to concentrate his attention on his slide and the recovery. To his surprise the oarlock did carry the oar. His wrists were relieved of an exhausting strain; his blade plunged under no longer. He found that a little easy toss of the oar at the end of the slide would bring the blade squarely into the water. “What’s the matter with you, Bow?” called Coolidge, amazed. “You’re rowing right!” [Illustration: AND WATCH THE VARSITY EIGHT SWEEP MAGNIFICENTLY BY.] “It’s about time,” growled Wilmot.