Evening Star Newspaper, June 16, 1935, Page 86

() Magazine Section Hlustration by C. R. Chickering The people on the yacht withdrew a little from him ind looked at him THIS WEEK “I'll Break Your Hearts™ by HARRY SYLVESTER AN tried to watch the eight-oared shell come down the Hudson, but the sunlight glancing flatly from the river hit his eyes, so that he shut them and turned face downward. His long, almost naked body was dark from the sun, and the sun beat hotly upon his back and made the boards of the float he lay on warm beneath him. Lying in the heat, he could sometimes become drowsy and sleep and for- get the thoughts which had been with him so strongly these last three weeks. He had not known the three weeks in the boat-house could be so bitter, or he would never have come to Poughkeepsie to stroke a junior varsity crew. His mind, drowsing now - in that gray border-land between sleep and waking where the past may be recalled more easily than at any other time, thought again of his brother, Al, who had been before him at the school, of himself, Dan, who had failed and made Al's failure appear worse, and of his father, who, a generation ago, had, in another race, also failed. Al Haley had been a good stroke-oar. Five years ago when he had been a senior, his crew had come into the last mile at Poughkeepsie, caught a crab and lost the race. Then, out ofa buried past, a past neither Al nor Dan knew about, the newspapers resurrected the tale of - the failure of another Haley, Pete, father of Al and of Dan. Peter Haley had collapsed in a boat race once after lying sleepless most of the night previous with a toothache. He had never told anyone of the reasons for his col- lapse, and because his own crew-mates had known him for a brave man and had never thought less of him, Peter Haley had never mentioned the incident to his sons. Then Al Haley had caught a crab and from Seattle to Annapolis, wherever men rowed and slim rowing shells cut water, the Haleys were a marked family. Al Haley had come back to Poughkeepsie when Dan was a sophomore and talked to him before the race. “Kid,” said Al, “you’re on a good crew. I've had a bad taste in my mouth for three years. The old man’s had the same at least as long. You win today, and we'll feel better.” He had felt very noble, Dan remembered. Very noble and very tense. And then he had tried too hard. Coming down the last mile, leading as Al's boat had led three years before, straining desperately to keep the boat up, to row in good form, it had happened. Suddenly, he had done all the things he was not to do. He had felt the others gradually lose their rhythm, their precision. Slides hit hard against stops by the disorder, he let the oar handle turn slightly in his big hands, and it hit him under the ribs. Like Al before him he had caught a crab. He would remember always the next few minutes as the boat drifted rather than rowed down the river, hopelessly beaten. And the next day’s papers all commenting on how. like his brother and his father, he had failed. After the race he had felt lost, had even cried a little. Al and his father made him dress on a friend’s yacht, away from the other oarsmen. Dan did not see them until the following fall. Murtaugh, the coach, never mentioned ‘what had happened. But when Dan came out for early crew practice the next year, he was on the junior varsity, the jayvee. He had stayed there for two years. He was still on it. It occurred to him now that he had been oddly meek, ab though he had deserved no better lot. Only once, in the spring of this, his senior year, had he ever approached Murtaugh. ‘“Listen,” he had said that time to Mur- taugh, “you know I'm a better oarsman than most of them in the varsity boat, maybe a better stroke than Cowalt."” Murtaugh had shrugged. “On paper you're the best oarsman around.” Cold was Murtaugh; like deepwater or steel. Dan had looked at him and walked off. Dan remembered all these things, lying in the sun on the float. He heard voices and looked up as Murtaugh leaped from the coaching launch onto the float. A quarter-mile off the varsity was heading in from its last workout before the race the next day. “Too much sun, Haley,” Murtaugh said. “Get inside."” June 16, 193* Dan rose from the warm planks. He wanted to say: ‘“What difference will it make? Since when are you bothered about what I do?”’ But he only rose without speaking and stood in the shadow of the boat-house to watch the varsity come in. They stepped from the shell at Grogan's orders, swung it over their heads, wheeled in a quarter-circle and marched into the boat-house. They didn't notice Dan. Grogan, the coxswain, following after the others, alone nodded briefly. This crew was cocky, Dan saw, on edge from the long training period, speaking more sharply than ever the strange language of youth. The language which made them say ‘headache” when they meant ‘“heartache” and caused them to curse at those they liked and be polite to those they didn't like. They had been polite to Dan for a long while. Suddenly he hated them. Stony Thomas and Bob Miller, Swiderski and Ghee Layden, and Butch Cowalt, the stroke. Hated them all. But the hatred passed quickly. He turned away. Three Haleys; three failures. Dan felt heavy and tired. He went to bed early and slept longer and deeper than ever before that spring. Cowalt was not at breakfast, and Murtaugh was late. He looked white and haggard. “‘What's the matter with Butch?'"’ Swiderski said. “Sick stomach — that’s all.” Murtaugh drank black coffee without taking the cup from his lips. “Will he be able to row?" Stony Thomas said. “I don't know,"” Murtaugh said in his flat voice. “We've got him dosed with everything from soda to hot water bags, but he’s been up all night."” ““How nice,"” said Ghee Layden, but no one else spoke. Dan Haley rose. Some strong, nameless excitement moved in him. If Cowalt couldn't row, Dan would have to stroke the varsity boat. As he stood, he caught the others’ eyes. They didn’t like him. They had never known this before. But now, knowing that he must stroke them if Cowalt couldn't, they found that they disliked him. Some great irony almost made Dan laugh at them. But he turned away and walked to the float and in the shadow of the boat-house sat looking at the water. He sat there alon all morning. = i It was noon when Murtaugh came to Dar and stood looking at him. There were d lines under Murtaugh's eyes, but the fa¢ showed no emotion. “‘Cowalt can't row,” said. ‘“You'll have to stroke them.” Dan supposed that he should have bee suddenly exalted. But the look in Muf taugh's eyes killed something quickly, eve as it rose in Dan. » Dan ate the light lunch after the othefl were through and lay drowsing on his o through the afternoon. He wondered dully - Murtaugh knew what he took from a mad when he spoke that way. 1 A manager came and put a hand on ht shoulder. “All right, Haley.” Dan got up a went downstairs to the lockers. The othef had been there before him, and he dresse alone. o Now he was to join the others in the litt® room just off the locker room. This next houft not the race, would be the ordeal. There w& always this time just before a race, an hot or a little more, when the crew was left alon % They lay in a room, eight oarsmen and M (Continued on page 10)