“This is the way I learned to row,” came the retort from the bow oar.
“Well, you’ll have to unlearn some things,” retorted the coach, grimly.
“Don’t look so worried, Tom,” he went on a little later. “You’re picking up your stroke fairly well. Frank, a little more forward—reach out well over your toes. That’s better. Now let’s hit it up a little.”
They had been rowing about twenty strokes per minute—rather slow, and, as Mr. Lighton indicated an increase, Frank followed, until they were doing twenty-four, a substantial advance. As they rowed along, Tom glanced away from Frank’s rising and falling back, and said in a low voice:
“Here comes Boxer Hall!”
[CHAPTER VIII]
RUTH’S LOSS
“Silence number seven—eyes in the boat—on the man in front of you!”
Thus the coach called to Tom, but there was no sting in his words, and the tall baseball pitcher of Randall knew that it was for the good of himself and the crew. Nothing is so important in a race as to save one’s wind, and to keep one’s eyes fairly glued on the back of the man in front of one. For on unison, and in rowing exactly in time with every other man in the shell, does the race depend.