“Well, perhaps you are. You may fill in later, though, as coxswain, or row in one of the other boats. I guess——”
“I’d like to row!” exclaimed someone.
Reginald Boswell stepped forward, a smile of confidence on his face.
“I’ve done considerable of it,” he added, with an air of assurance. To do him justice he was a well-built lad, and those who had seen him out on the river knew he could pull a good oar. Whether he had racing qualities in him remained to be seen.
“Very well,” said the coach, quietly. “We’ll give you a trial. That makes the eight. Now then, who’ll be for stroke? Simpson, I think I’ll try you. You look as though you could set the pace. For number seven—um! Parsons, you try that, though we may change later. Remember that number seven, who sits directly behind stroke, has almost as important a position, for he has to pick up the stroke promptly, and the rest of the crew is dependent, in a great measure, on what number seven does.
“Now, let me see. Boswell, you’ll be bow oar. Phil Clinton number two, Sid Henderson at three, Housenlager at four, Woodhouse number five, and Cross at six. Now I guess we’re all ready. Steady the boat there, some of you, while the crew gets in.”
Dutch Housenlager once more eagerly started for the boat, and extended his foot to step down into it at his designated seat.
“Wait! Wait!” cried the coach. “Don’t get into a shell that way. Remember that it’s almost as thin as its name indicates. Put your foot lengthwise of the keelson, not athwart, or you may force your heel or toe through the sides. Have all of you your rubber-soled shoes on?”
“Sure,” replied Dutch, a bit abashed. A glance showed that all were in sufficiently regular rowing costume.
“Now, while we’re at it, I might as well tell you how properly to get in a shell,” went on the coach. “You may all listen, as you can’t tell whom it may fit.