lated publicity is best. Any newsgatherer
who feels confident that he is getting just as much as his neighbor, and
that the information given to him is reliable, will never abuse the
privilege by making sensational use of the material. It is usually when
information is withheld that sensationalism is called in. The reading
public wants something, and the paper that has not got facts to give
cooks up something as a substitute. The man who withheld the facts
seldom likes the substitution.

These reflections have been called up by the reminiscence of the manner
in which the Halcyon and Shattuck boat club races of St. Paul's were
conducted three weeks ago. They were held on June 11th, at eleven
o'clock in the morning; but as this fact had been withheld from public
knowledge the spectators were practically limited to the boys of the
school. Of course that is just what the vice-rector wanted. But is he
right in this? Why not let the good people of Concord stand upon the
shores of Penacook Lake and watch the race between these crews of
healthy American boys? Is there anything about sport, as conducted at
St. Paul's School, that the vice-rector, or any one else, should be
ashamed of? Of course not! Then why not be open and aboveboard about it?
Why race when the townsman's back is turned? Why deprive him of a little
healthful cheering and an inspiriting sight? He would surely be the
better for it, and the St. Paul's crew would be none the worse.

The races this year were most interesting, and one incident of the
six-oared race was thrilling. At a point about half-way down the course,
while the Shattucks and the Halcyons were still about even, Oglebay, who
was rowing No. 2 in the Shattuck boat, broke his oar-lock. Of course his
muscle was of no further avail, and thenceforth he could be but a
passenger, so he did what every level-headed oarsman does under the
circumstance--he leaped into the water. He was picked up by a boat near
by. But with only five men the Shattucks were unable to win. It is a
sandy thing to do, this jumping into the water from a racing-shell, and
while Oglebay is entitled to praise for leaping, he would most certainly
have deserved censure if he had not jumped. In the race between Yale and
the Atalanta crew on New Haven Harbor, in 1890, Phil Allen, stroke and
captain, broke his oar and jumped into the sea. He was picked up by the
referee's tug, and stood at the bow dripping wet as he watched his seven
men d