“I know. Well, if you get both games from St. Eustace your name will go down to posterity in red letters with a wreath about it. I only wish I was as hopeful as you are.”
“Old Dick wouldn’t let himself get hopeful if we had a boatful of tailor’s dummies to row against,” said Trevor. “There isn’t any possibility of our getting beaten on the fifteenth—barring accidents.”
“But the trouble is we can’t bar accidents,” replied Dick. “They will happen even in the best regulated of crews. Somebody’s certain to take sick or sprain his wrist or something.”
“Isn’t he an old granny?” asked Trevor disgustedly.
“I hear you had a shake-up yesterday?” queried Carl.
“A little one; Kirk took Milton out and is trying Cheever at three. And he dropped Rankin from the second eight. That was all. I guess we’ll row about the way we are now. St. Eustace’s coach read the riot act last week, they say; dumped two men out of the boat and raked every one over the coals. Oh, well, we’ll know all about it in a couple of weeks.”
“I wish I was as certain of exams as I am that we’ll beat St. Eustace,” said Trevor. “By the way, Dick, the pater’s coming up for class day to see you graduate. Stewart, they’re going to draw for the tennis tournament to-night in Chandler’s room.”
“How many entries are there?” asked Carl.
“Twenty-two. I hope I don’t get drawn for the preliminary round, that’s all. I’d hate to get thrown out of it so early and have no——”