The Boxer Hall lads, rowing perhaps a trifle faster than they had been doing, sitting perhaps a trifle straighter, and pulling a bit harder—a natural showing off—came opposite the shell containing our friends of Randall.
“Want to try a little spurt?” called Dave Ogden, from the coxswain’s seat.
“No, thank you—we’re just out for practice. It’s our first spin,” replied Mr. Lighton. “Some other time.”
“Why not now?” murmured Boswell.
“Silence in the bow!” exclaimed the coach, sharply.
“You’re a martinet!” retorted the rich lad, but in so low a voice that only Phil, sitting in front of him, heard.
Not a lad in the Boxer Hall shell spoke, though several nodded in friendly fashion at their acquaintances in the Randall boat. They were evidently well trained, and were saving their wind.
On they rowed, passing those who hoped to prove themselves formidable rivals by the following Fall. And in spite of the command of Mr. Lighton for all eyes to be in the boat, hardly a lad of the eight but glanced enviously at the smoothly-swinging shell, that looked so trim and so neat. For, in spite of the work expended on the second-hand craft, it showed what it was.
“But it won’t be long before we have a better one,” thought Tom.
“Row easy, all,” came the command from the coach, when the Boxer Hall boat had passed around a bend of the stream.