“Surest thing you know,” assented the other.
“Remember, Blake, you’re the bowman,” went on the coach. “Mind your steering. That new mechanical contrivance on this boat works very well. It’s delicate, though. The least touch of your foot will shift the rudder. And give your orders so Carter can hear you, but don’t waste too much breath doing it.”
“Carter, mind your stroke. You may offset the change of the rudder if you pull too hard or too easy. Now go ahead—and may the Fates be kind to you. Randall needs those three points.”
The three pair-oar boats moved off to the starting point and the crowd prepared to watch another exciting contest. Dutch had gone into the dressing rooms, accompanied by one of the trainers, who was directed to give him a rub-down. Tom followed, and as he went in he passed Boswell, who was also headed in the same direction.
“I guess they don’t ever intend the singles to be rowed,” remarked the rich lad, with some disgust in his tones. “Here I’ve been fiddling around just because that chump from Boxer Hall can’t get a shell to suit him. Why didn’t they look over their outriggers before they came?”
“Oh, they’ll be ready soon,” spoke Tom. Boswell had, as you may have assumed, been picked to uphold the Randall end in the singles. To do him justice he had trained hard and well, and had been faithful. He was not a favorite, chiefly because he boasted so much, and talked so incessantly of his “private trainer,” and other “possessions.”
“I’m going to get a handkerchief for my neck,” explained Boswell, as he approached his locker. “The sun’s hotter on the back of my neck than I thought it was.”
Tom passed on, paying no more attention to the single sculler. The tall pitcher was chiefly concerned to see that Dutch did no more “cutting up,” and dropped the horseplay with which he was wont to amuse himself at all times.
“His monkey business may cost us the race,” thought Tom, a bit angrily.
But Housenlager managed to contain himself, and was soon in dry rowing togs again. He and Tom lingered in the dressing rooms of the boathouse until someone called for the loser of the tub races to come out. Tom followed slowly, and, as he did so, he passed Boswell, who was restoring some of his garments to the locker, having tied a silk handkerchief about his neck. It was the same gaudy-hued one that had a strip torn from it, and, at the sight, Tom’s memory went back to the hut on Crest Island, to Ruth’s lost brooch, and to the robbery.