“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?”
“They’re going down to Cohasset to spend to-day and to-night. They aren’t coming back to school until ten o’clock to-morrow, and they don’t have to prepare any lessons.”
“Who told you?” asked Jack, suspiciously.
“Winny Thorne. I saw him on the car. His brother’s on their crew.”
“And we’ve got to stay here all day and study all the evening on to-morrow’s lessons!” exclaimed Louis. “It’s a roast!”