“Yes, and Wells is more than seventeen years old,” said Taylor.
“I dare say. What time is it, Keene?”
“Five after.”
“Well, let’s go up. By Jove, fellows, what a day for it!” Dick took a deep breath of the brisk, invigorating air, sweet with the fragrance of lush meadows and moist woods, and turned smilingly to Taylor. “How do you feel?”
“Too good to describe,” answered Number 7 heartily. “I could row ten miles instead of two.”
“Good boy,” said Dick. He gazed up the length of the shell. Answering smiles met him from bright eyes and glowing faces, save in one case. Trevor grinned broadly; he even essayed a wink; but the grin was somewhat awry and the wink was a poor thing. Dick frowned, and, turning, gripped his oar with his exuberance lessened.
“Ready all! Forward! Paddle!”
The shell crept up-stream between banks sprinkled with spectators, hurrying, in most cases, toward the finish line or some midway point of vantage. At the start quite a throng had assembled to see the boats get away. The Terrible, bearing a number of Hillton representatives, chugged alongside, and from her deck Kirk gave his last commands in low tones to Dick and Keene. Then he spoke briefly to the crew, and a moment later both shells backed to the starting-line.
Trevor saw the throng through a light mist. With his hands gripping the oar he stared in growing misery at the neck of Number 5 and waited, wondering for the tenth time how much longer the suspense would last. To the left of him was the St. Eustace boat. The fellows were peeling off their sweaters and some were whispering. Then Trevor was removing his own sweater, and the referee was talking to them about something; what it was he didn’t know nor care. If only they would start! He heard Keene’s voice: “Get ready!” He went forward on his slide, turned his blade square in the water, and felt it snug against the thole-pin.