“Naturally. That’s as easy as pons asinorum to say, but not so easy to do,” commented number six—Billie Burden.
“Say, if you lads want to have any breath left for rowing you’d better stop talking,” commented the coach, and after that there was silence in the varsity as well as in the second eight.
On came Boxer Hall, and not a Randall lad but envied their long, powerful stroke, so evenly done, and with such seeming power back of it. But Boxer Hall had been turning out winning crews for several years, and they had had much practice.
But, with all that, as Mr. Lighton and Mr. Pierson watched the two crews of Randall, out of whose numbers they hoped would come a varsity winner, the head coach remarked:
“Our boys do very well.”
“Very well indeed,” responded the Cornell man. “In fact I like their stroke better than that of Boxer Hall’s. It is likely to last longer, and is not so tiring. Our boys feather better, too.”
“Yes, thanks to your instruction this Summer to Tom Parsons and his three chums. Four good rowers in a boat help to put it in the champion class.”
If it was the intention of Boxer Hall to indulge in a race with our friends the river champions gave no intention of it at this time. They rowed on slowly, being some distance down the stream. The water was wide at this point, and there was room for several craft abreast, even with the long oars in the outriggers which set well out over the gunwales.
“Watch out for a sudden spurt,” advised Frank, in a low voice to Jerry, who nodded in his coxswain’s seat, and got the tiller ropes in a firm grasp.
Boxer Hall was known to be foxy, and if she could creep up on her rival, and, by a sudden increase in the stroke, gain such an advantage that Randall would find it hard to overcome the lead obtained, it would look as though our friends were outclassed. But there were wise boys at Randall, too.