Evening Star Newspaper, September 8, 1929, Page 100

12 A MATTER OF LOYAL TANDING in the bow of the launch. Dr. Nicholls, coach of the Baliol crew, leaned upon his megaphone, his eyes fixed upon two eight-cared crews resting upon their oars a hundred feet away. From his hand dangled a stop-watch. The two crews had just com- pleted a four-mile race against the watch. A grim light came into the deeply set gray eleven. But in the race just eon!xpleted the s:Lc: varsity had been much of a factor—surpric - 4 Nip and tuck it had the y rival boat astern, but unable to do so. At the finish not a quarter of a length, not 15 feet, wing a poor showing, that is, assuming the time con- sumed in the four-mile trip was not especially low. Only the coach could really know whether the time was satisfactory or mot. But Jim Deacon suspected that it was poor, his ideo being based upon knowledge he had concerning the capabilities of his own crew; in other words, he knew it was only an average second var- sity outfit. The coach knew it, too. “Not good, boys—not good.” His voice was gentle, though usually he was a rip-roaring mentor. “Varsity, you weren't rowing. That's .the answer—not rowing together. What's the who sat at stroke of the varsity. “Now,” muttered the stroke of the second varsity, his eyes gleaming, “we’ll hear some- thing.” “Doane, is there anything the trouble with you? You're feeling well, aren’t you?” “Yes, sir. Sure!” The boy flushed. Deacon, watching the coach, could almost see his mind working. Now the time had come, the issue clearly defined. Another stroke must be tried and found not wanting, else the annual eight-oared rowing classic between those an- clent universities Baliol and Shelburne would be decided before it was rowed. Deacon flushed as the coach’s glittering eye- giasses turned toward him. It was the big moment of the senior’s four years at college. Four years! And six months of each of thos¢ years a galley-slave—on the machines in the Towing-room of the gymnasium, on the ice-in- fested river with the cutting winds of March sweeping free; then the more genial months with the voice of coach or assistant coach lash- ing him. Four years of dogged, unremitting toil with never the reward of a varsity seat] and now with the great regatta less than a week away, the big moment, the crown of all he had dons. : Words seemed on the verge of the coach’s lips. Deacon's eyes strained upon them as he sat stiffly in his seat. But no words came; the coach turned away. NO one had known Deacon really well in college. He was working his way through. Besides, he was a student in one of the highly scientific engineering courses which demanded & great deal of steady application. With no great aptitude for foot ball—he was a bit slow-footed—with little time or inclination for social activities, he had concentrated upon row- , not only as a diversion from his arduous studies, an ordered outlet for physical energy, but with the idea of going out into the world g which he had heard and believed was likely fo stand him in stead in life. Later, as Deacon stood watching the fresh- fnen at play, Dick Rollins, the crew captain, “They sent down the time-trial results from $he Shelburne quarters, Deacon.” “The time—oh, yes; I see.” “They did 20 minutes 30 seconds.” Deacon whistled. 8ick crew when he sees one. “He told me you were to sit in at stroke in Bunior Doane’s place tomorrow. I'd been pull- This Story, “A Matter of Loyalty” by Lawrence Perry, Was Awarded the 0. Henry Memorial Prize Last Year. It Is One of a Series of Prize Stories, Each One Complete in Itself, Appearing in The Star’s Sunday Magazine. Another One of the 0. Henry Award Stories Is to Be Published in Next Sunday’s Issue. ing for the change the past few days. Now he sees it.” “You were pulling—— But you're Doane's roommate.” “Yes, it's tough. know.” Deacon stared at the man. say something but couldn't. smiled. “Jim, old boy, you're a queer sort of a chap, and—and—the fact is, the situation will be a bit ticklish. You know what it means for a fellow to be thrown out of his seat just before a race upon which he has been count- ing heart and soul.” “I don't kffow. I can imagine.” “You see, it’s Doane. You know about his father—" “I know all about his father,” was the reply. “Eh?” Rollins stared at him, then smiled. “I suppose every rowing man at Baliol does. But you don’t know as much as I do. On the quiet, he’s the man who gave us the new boat- house last year. He’s our best spender. He was an old varsity oar . Frankly, Jim, Doc Nicholls and the rest of us would have liked to see Junior Doane come through. I think you get what I mean. He’s a senior; he's my best friend. But we're not throwing a race to {Shelburne simply to please old Cephas Doane, naturally. I know what you've got, Jim. So does Dr. Nicholls. You'll be in the varsity tomorrow. But here’s the point of what I've been trying to say: Junior Doane hasn’t been very decent to you—-" “You mean he hasn’t paid much attention to me.” Deacon smiled grimly. “Well, that's all right. As a matter of fact, I never really have got to know him. Still, I haven't got to know many of the fellows. Too busy.” “Good enough!” The captain started to walk away, then turned back with sudden in- terest. “By the way, Jim, I was looking through the college catalogue this morning. You and Doane both come from Philadelphia, don’t you?” “Yes.” “I asked Doane if he knew you there. Ap- parently not.” “No, he didn't.” Deacon paused as though deliberating. Suddenly he spoke. “I knew of him, though. You see, my father works in the bank of which Mr. Doane is president.” But Baliol first, you He wanted to The captain memthatqulet!nthemuoldlninc room that evening which one might expect to find after an unsatisfactory time-trial. “If any’ of you fellows wish to motor down to the Groton Hotel on the Point for an hour or two you may go,” said the coach, pushing back his chair. He had begun to fear that his charges might be coming to too fine a point of condition and had decided that the relaxa- tion of a bit of dancing might do do harm. “Yeah|” In an instant that subdued dining apartment was tumultuous with vocal outery. With a yell and a dive the oarsmen went through the doors. Deacon followed at a more leisurely gait with that faint gleam of amusement in his eyes which was so characteristic. His first impulse was not to go, but upon second thought he decided that he would. Jane Bostwick was stopping at the Groton. Her father was a successful promoter and very close to Cephas Doane, sr., whose bank stood back of most of his operations. Deacon and she had been neighbors as boy and girl, had played together in front of a row of prim brick houses. He had not seen her in recent years until the previous afternoon, when as he was walking along the country road she had pulled up in her roadster. “Don’t pretend you don't remember me, Jim Deacon,” she hc1 laughed. Jim remembered her, all right. They talked as though so many significant years had not elapsed. Curiously, that evening he had heard Doane talking to her over the telephone, and there was a great deal in his manner of speaking that indicated something more than mere acquaint- ance. But Deacon did not see Jane Bostwick at the hotel—not to speak to, at least. It was not until the hour set for the return had almost arrived that Deacon saw her, and then his attention was directed to her by her appearance with Junior Doane in one of the open French windows at his right, A wave of something akin to bitterness passed over Deacon—bitterness having nothing to do with self. For the boy was ruggedly independ- ent. He believed in himself; knew what he . was going to do in the world. He was thinking of his father, and of the fathers of that young man and girl before him. His father was painstaking, honorable, considerate—a noble- man every inch of him; a man who deserved everything that the world had to give, a man who had everything save the quality of acqui- sition. And Doane’s father? And Jane Bost- wick’s father? Of the elder Doane he knew by hearsay—a proud, intolerant, wholly worldly man, whose passions, aside from finance, were his son and Baliol aquatics. And Jane Bostwick's father he had known as a boy—a soft-footed, sly= faced, velvety sort of man noted for converting back lots into oil-fields and ashdumps into mines yielding precious metals. JIM DEACON was the man for varsity stroke, There was not the least doubt about that. The coach could see it; the varsity could feel it; but of them all Deacon alone knew why. He knew that Doane was practically as strong an oar as he was, cermlnly‘u finished. And Doane's experience was greater. The difficulty as Deacon grasped it was that the boy had not employed all the material of his experience. The coxswaln, Seagraves, was a snappy little chap, with an excellent opinion of his head. But Deacon had doubts as to his racing sense. He could shoot ginger into his men, could lash them along with a fine rhythm, but in negotiat- ing a hard-fought race he had his shortcomings. Deacon thanked no coxswain to tell him how to row a race, when“to sprint, when to dog along at a steady, swinging 30; nor did he require advice on the pacing and general con- dition of a rival crew. As he swung forward for the catch, his practice was to turn his head slightly to one side, chin along the shoulder, thus gaining through the tail of his eye a glimpse of any boat that happened to be abeam, slightly ahead or slightly astern, This glance told him everything he wished to know. Two days before the Shelburne race the Baliol varsity in its final time-trial came within 10 seconds of equaling the lowest downstream trial-record ever established—a record made by a Shelbutne eight of the early '80s. There was no doubt in the mind of any one about the Baliol crew quarters that Deacon would be the man to set the pace for his university in the supreme test swiftly approaching. Dr. Nicholls was reticent, but no one could say that his demeanor was marked by gloom. Perhaps his optimism would have been more marked had the information he possessed con- cerning Shelburne been less disturbing. As a matter of fact there was every indication that the rival university would be represented by one of the best crews in her history— which was so say a very great deal. In truth, Baliol rowing enthusiasts had not seen their shell cross the line ahead of a Shelburne varsity boat in three consecutive years. “Jim,” said the coach, drawing Deacon from the float upon which he had been standing, watching the antics of a crew of former Baliol oarsmen who had come from far and wide to row the mile race of “Gentlemen’s Eights” which annually marked the afternoon preced- ing the classic regatta day, “Jim, you're not worried at all, are you? You're such a quiet sort of a chap, I can't seem to get you.” ~ Deacon smiled faintly. “No, I'm not worried—not a bit, sir. I mean I'm going to do my best, and if that's good enough, why—well, we win.” “I want you to do more than your best to- morrow, Jim. It's got to be a super-effort. You're up against a great Shelburne crew, the greatest I ever saw—that means 12 years back. I wouldn't talk to every man this way, but I think youre a stroke who can stand re- sponsibility.” “Xes, v The coach studied him a minute. “How do you feel about beating Skelburne? What I mean,” he went on as the oarsman regarded him, puzzled, “is, would it break your heart to lose? Is the thought of being beaten so serious that you can't—that you won't consider it?” “No, sir, I won’'t consider it. I don't go into anything without wanting to come out ahead. I've worked three years to get into the varsity. I realize the position you've given me will help me, make me stand out after graduation, mean almost as much as my di- ploma—provided we can win.” “What about Baliol? Do you think of the college, too, and what a victory will mean to her? What defeat will mean?” “Oh,” Deacon shrugged; “of course,” he went on a bit carelessly, ‘“we want to see Baliol on top as often——" He stopped, then broke into a chuckle as the stroke of the gentlemen’s eight suddenly produced from the folds of his sweater a bottle from which he drank with dramatic unction while his fellow oarsmen clamored to share the libation and the coxs- wain abused them all. The eyes of the coach never left the young man'’s face. But he said nothing while Deacon took his fill of enjoyment of the jovial scene, apparently forgetting the sentence whjch he had broken in the middle. BUT that evening something of the coach's meaning came to Deacon as-he sat on a ‘rustic bench watching the colors fade from ore of those sunset skies which live ever in the hearts of rowing men who have spent a hallowed June on the heights of that broad, placid stream. The ‘Baliol graduates had lost their race against the gentlemen of Shelburne, having rowed “just a bit worse than their rivals. And now the two crews were celebrating their revival of the ways of youth with a dinner provided by the defeated eight. Their laughter and their songs went out through the twilight and were lost in the recesses of the river. One song with a haunting melody caught Deacon’s attention; he lsten:zd to get the words. THE SUNDAY STAR., WASHINGT “W hat I mean,” said the coach, Then raise the rosy goblet high, The senior's chalice, and belie The tongues that trouble and defile, For we have yet a little while To linger, you and youth and I, In college days. College days! For a moment a dim light burned in the back of his mind. It went out suddenly. Jim Deacon shrugged and thought of the morrow’s race. It was good to know he was going to be a part of it. He could feel the gathering of enthusiasm, exhilaration in the atmosphere— pent-up emotion which on the morrow would burst like a thunderclap. Deacon’s nerves tingled pleasantly in response to the glamour of the hour. “Oh, Jim Deacon!"” “Hello!” Deacon turned his face toward the building whence the voice came. “Somebody wants to see you on the road by the bridge over the railroad.” Filled with wonder, Deacon walked leisurely out of the yard and then reaching the road, followed in the wake of an urchin of the neighborhood who had brought the summons. It was Jane Bostwick. “Jump up here in the car, won't you, Jim?” Her voice was somewhat tense. “We can talk better.” “Have you heard from your father lately?"” she asked. “No, not in a week. Why, is there anything the matter with him?” “Of course not. You knew that Mr. Bell, cashier of the National Penn Bank, had died?” “No. Is that sc? That's too bad.” Then suddenly Deacon sat érect. “By George! Father is one of the assistant cashiers there. I wonder if he'll be promoted.” “Do you know how keen Mr. Doane, I mean Junior’s father, is on rowing? Well,”— as Deacon nodded—*“have you thought how he might feel toward the father of the man who is going to sit in his son’s seat in the race tomorrow? Would it make him keen to put that father in Mr. Bell's place?” Deacen’s exclamation was sharp. “Who asked you to put that thought in my mind?” “Ah!” Her hand went out, lying upon his arm. “l1 was afraid you were going to take it that way. My mother was talking this after- noon. I thought you should know. As for Junior Doane I'm frank to admit I'm awfully keen about him. But that isn't why I came here. I remember how close you and your father used to be. I—I thought perhaps you'd thank me if—if—" “What you mean is that because I have beaten Doane out for stroke, his father may be sore and not promote my father at the bank.” “There’s no ‘may’ about it. Mr. Doane will be sore. He'll be sore at Junior, of course. But he'll be sore secretly at you, and where there is a question of choice of cashier be- tween your father and another man—even though the other man has not been, sq,long in the bank—how do you think his mind will work; I mean, if you lose? Of course, if you can win, then I am sure everything will be all right. You must—" “If I can win! What difference would that ——" He stopped suddenly. “I've caught what you mean” He laughed bitterly. “Paren- tal jealousy. All right! All right!” “Jim, I don’t want you——" “Don’t bother. I've heard all I can stand, Jane. Thank you.” He lurched out of the car and hurried away. She called him. No answer. Waiting a & ke