"Yes, I mean—" Cephas Doane stopped suddenly. "I think in justice to my daughter-in-law to be, Jane Bostwick, that some explanation is in order."
"Yes, sir." Deacon, his arm about his father's shoulder, stared at the man.
"You see, Dr. Nicholls had the idea that you needed a finer edge put on your rowing spirit. So I got Jane to cook up the story about that cashier business at the bank."
"You did!"
"Yes. Of course your father was appointed. The only trouble was that
Jane, bright and clever as she is, bungled her lines."
"Bungled!" Deacon's face cleared. "That's what Dr. Nicholls said about her on the road, the day I bucked out. I remember the word somehow."
"She bungled, yes. She was to have made it very clear that by winning you would escape my alleged wrath—or rather, your father would. I knew you would row hard for Baliol, but I thought you might row superhumanly for your father."
"Well," Jim Deacon flushed, then glanced proudly at his father— "you were right, sir—I would."