"That reminds me," Kingdon said quickly. "Those fellows sailing the Nothing To It claim to be the fastest crew in these parts in eight-oared shell."
"Nothing To It?" echoed Pence.
Rex told him about the Blackport Boat Club fellows and their boasting. "I'd dearly love to get hold of that old boat of theirs, train a bit, and see how bad they could trim us in a race."
"But you five fellows can't handle an eight-oared shell," the black-eyed youth said.
"No. But we five, with your four, could. Even Pudge would do as ballast. Have to work in Hicks as cox."
Pence stared and laughed shortly. "You're a queer fellow," he said. "Anybody'd think we were bosom friends of yours.'
"Bosom enemies," responded Kingdon. "What's the odds, enemies or friends? We might work up a good crew and have a little fun with that Nothing To It crowd."
"You must have sport on the brain, Kingdon," drawled Horace.
"Sure. Clean sport. There's nothing like it. I can have a fine time with the worst enemy I've got, if he only plays the game—any game—fair."
"Suppose you've got plenty of deadly enemies?" was the other's rejoinder.