The audience showed its approval of these sentiments by clapping, Taylor perhaps the loudest of all, and Dick, somewhat red in the face from his effort, smiled, and drawing a tablet from his pocket, proceeded to take the fellows’ names. Professor Beck settled his glasses again on his nose and approached a youth who during the proceedings had been perched comfortably on the top of a radiator, but who, having secured the entry of his name in the list of candidates, was now examining with interest the working of one of the rowing machines.
“You’re Nesbitt, aren’t you?” asked the professor.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever rowed any, Nesbitt?”
“Yes, as a youngster”—here the professor smiled slightly—“I used to paddle a bit; that was in England.”
“Ah, yes; I recollect you now. You won the last quarter in the relay race the other night; that was well run, my boy, although you’re rather too heavy for fast work. How was your wind when you finished?”
“It was rather short; the spurts tuckered me quite a bit.”
“Yes, I imagine you could get rid of eight pounds or so to good advantage. You’d better come and see me to-morrow and take your examination, so that I can put you to work on the weights as soon as possible. I’m glad you’re going to try for the crew; you look as though you were made for a rowing man.” He nodded smilingly and moved away, and Trevor, assuming an appearance of unconcern, while secretly much flattered by the professor’s attention, joined Dick, who had finished his list and was conversing with Roy Taylor and Crocker, a large, heavily built youth who had rowed at Number 6 in the second eight the preceding year. Taylor was speaking when Trevor approached.
“Why, last winter over forty fellows turned out, and now look at ’em! Great Scott! There’s no use trying to get a decent crew out of twenty men!”
Dick frowned, and Crocker offered a suggestion: