The practice at Randall went on. There were sore hearts, but it could not be helped when the lads who thought they should be picked for the tentative crews, or for the singles, were passed by. For Mr. Lighton was impartial, and insisted on only the best no matter at what cost.
Perhaps sorest of all was Boswell, he who had been displaced from what had come to be regarded as the varsity eight, though, as the coach pointed out, there might be changes in the Fall. Boswell was ordered into what was termed the “second” eight, but refused to go.
“I may not row at all,” he said loftily to his crony, Pierce. “Or I may go in the singles.”
“I would,” suggested the latter. “My word! A man’s his own boss in a single.”
“I’ll think of it,” replied Boswell.
Examinations came, with all their grilling and nerve-racking tendencies, and were more or less successfully gotten through with by our friends and their chums. Then came the long vacation.
[CHAPTER XIV]
OFF FOR CAMP
“See you soon again, old man!”