“And you’ll find it good to make a boat go. It’s as good a stroke as you will find in the market.”
Here Chauncy lifted his hat, and thrusting his hand through his hair and piling it up anew, gave a defiant look, as if saying to all the world, “I’ll dare you to bring on another stroke as good as this.” Then he resumed his conversation.
“See here, Plympton. I just wanted to see you, and I came out here on purpose, thinking I might find you, after what you said one day that you thought you should take an early hour for practice. A business man, you know, must be on hand early to catch custom, and I wanted to see you about something special. Just you and me, and no more!”
Chauncy said this with an air of secrecy, of patronage also; as if he had reserved for Walter and Walter only, some unknown, distinguished honor. He drew close to Walter, and dropping his voice said, “I expect that our opponents next Tuesday, the day for the race, will be the Scarlet Grays from Campton.”
“Scarlet Grays?”
“Yes, they wear scarlet caps and gray pants, and then scarlet slippers again, and look quite nobby. But that’s according to fancy. You and I mean business, and that’s what we are after, and can get along in our every day wear. That’s what I think.”
Here he gave a wise little chuckle, and shook his head very decidedly and knowingly, so that he reminded Walter of those days when the academy students called him, “Solomon.”
“But here’s to the point. A–hem!”
Chauncy dropped his voice still lower, and tapping the palm of his left hand with the forefinger of his right, sharply eyed a rock in the river as if he would be willing to take this rock into the secret, but for no consideration could he admit a second rock.
“You see, Plympton—ahem!”