Wolcott reddened with pleasure. “Yes, if you want me.”
“Want you! We want everybody. Give us your hand.”
Wolcott reached out his hand and clasped the other’s brawny, callous fist.
“Squeeze!” commanded the captain, tightening his grip.
Wolcott squeezed. His summer, though wholly unlike Laughlin’s, had not been spent in idleness, and he met pressure with pressure. Second followed second, and still the two hands trembled in the clasp, while eye searched eye for sign of wavering. Wolcott’s muscles were failing, his hand was growing numb; but he marshalled his nerves to reënforce his muscles, determined not to show the white feather if his hand were crushed to pieces, and holding his own against his antagonist. It was Laughlin who ended the ordeal by suddenly wrenching his hand loose.
“You’ll do. What have you been doing all summer—rowing?”
“Yes, lots of it, and swimming and hauling sails.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“One hundred and seventy-nine, stripped.”
Laughlin nodded thoughtfully. “That’s not much in these days. I’m under my usual weight at two hundred and ten. Is that the outside wall there, behind the sofa?”