Captain of the Crew

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Trevor smiled with an effort.

“Nothing, I fancy; just a bit—a bit tired.”

“Well, sneak off upstairs and lie down a while, like a good chap. We can’t have you going off, old fellow. Talbot’s the only chap that would be fit for your place, and he’s as limp as a rag. Take a rest before dinner.”

Trevor obeyed, and spent the next quarter of an hour at full length on his bed in the room which he shared with Dick and two others. He shut his eyes resolutely, telling himself that he would be all right after a nap. But sleep refused to come, and he lay and wondered over and over whether he would be able to take his place in the boat. If he wasn’t poor old Dick would be in a hard way, he thought. There were three substitutes there besides Talbot, but not one of them was accustomed to rowing at Number 4, and, for that matter, not one was fitted for the position. All he could do, he resolved, was to fight down the beastly sickness; once in the boat, he felt certain he would be able to do his work. Besides, there was the case of Benson; to be sure, it was already noon, and his fever, instead of taking itself off, seemed rather to be increasing; but perhaps he had it a little worse than Benson, and it would take longer to disappear. He pressed his hands hard over his forehead in a vain endeavor to ease his headache, and tried his best to go to sleep. And then the dinner gong sounded, and he made a hasty toilet and joined the rest in the parlor, where a private table was spread. The meal was a sorry affair. Even the fellows who had rowed against St. Eustace the year before showed signs of nervousness, while some of the less experienced were in a blue funk. Kirk worked heroically to keep their spirits up, but it was of no avail in most cases, and there was a palpable air of relief when the meal was over and they were free to hide their feelings by moving about and talking to their heart’s content. A half-hour later the march to the boat-house was begun, and a crowd of admirers followed in their wake. Once in their places much of the nervousness wore off, and, cheered by the throng on shore, Hillton’s crew paddled out into the stream and set leisurely off for the start.

In the open air Trevor’s headache lessened, and he felt much better. Dick, who had been plainly anxious about him, found encouragement from his fresher looks and heaved a sigh of relief. As they paddled slowly up the river a sound of distant cheering reached them, and at a command from Keene they rested upon their oars and glanced up-stream and across to the St. Eustace boat-house. The rival eight were stepping into their shell. One after another the blue-clad youths took their places. Then they put out into the stream and dropped down the river toward the Hillton boat.

“There’s a good deal of splashing there,” said Dick.

“Yes.” Keene watched the oncoming crew attentively. “Yes, port side’s terribly ragged. But they look a powerful lot. Touch her easy, Seven. That’ll do.”

At a little distance up-stream the St. Eustace shell made a wide turn, the eight rowers for a moment resting upon their oars and sending a hearty cheer across the blue water. Hillton returned the compliment and her rival moved away again.

“They look a bit heavier than us,” said Shield from the bow of the boat.

“Only about a pound,” answered Dick, watching the shell creep up-stream; “that is, according to their weights, you know. But I’ll wager that Richardson weighs more than a hundred and forty-five.”