The eight oarswomen picked the light shell up, shoulder high, and marched down the platform to the float. Taking their cue from the tam-o'-shanters the seniors had made them wear early in their college experience, the freshmen eight wore light blue bandannas wound around their heads, with the corners sticking up like rabbit-ears, blue blouses, short skirts over bloomers, and blue stockings with white shoes. Their appearance was exceedingly natty.
"If we don't win in the races, we'll be worth looking at," Helen once said pridefully.
The assistant boatkeeper remained at a distance and said not a word to them, although there was a bank of black cloud upon the western horizon into which the sun would plunge after a time.
"We're the first out," cried one of the girls. "There isn't another boat on the lake."
"Wrong, Sally," Ruth Fielding said. "I just saw a boat disappear behind Bliss Island."
"Not one of ours?" cried Jennie, looking about as they lowered the shell into the water.
"No. It was a skiff. Came from the other side, I guess. Or perhaps it came up the river from the railroad bridge."
"Now," said Trix Davenport, the coxswain, "are we going to ask that boy to get out the launch and follow us?"
"Oh, goodness me! No," said Helen, with assurance. "We don't want him tagging us. Do we, girls?"
"Perhaps it might be better," Ruth said slowly.