"But they don't fit here," the other said shortly. "There's just as good rowing material in this crew as there was in the freshman eight I was on, and they could have rowed all around us without half trying. I'm a failure as stroke and coach. There's a screw loose somewhere. Just the same I believe we can do a lot better in the big race that is coming off this month."
"What makes you so sure?" growled Ben Comas.
"Because we can all pull a good oar, singly—even Pudge," Pence said. "Cloudman has improved wonderfully. But it needs something besides pulling to win a race. Just what it is, I don't know; but I bet Kingdon knows—or can find out."
"Oh, fudge!" muttered Ben. "Kingdon knows everything!"
"I reckon so," Pence said quickly, with uplifted lip, as he eyed the glum Comas. "Go off somewhere and growl it off alone, Bennie. What does it matter who's captain, if we can only win the race?"
"That's your idea, is it?" Kirby said.
"Look here, Horrors," Kingdon questioned uncertainly, "do you mean you want me——"
"You're the chap to boss the boat," cut in Pence. "You're the fellow to pull stroke."
There was a moment of breathless silence. To the surprise of the Walcott Hall boys, none of the others made either complaint or objection.
"If you say so——" began Rex slowly.