eir room.

"All right!" Dr. Nicholls grinned. "I gather all you varsity and
second varsity men want to go. I'll have the big launch ready at
eight. And--oh, Dick Rollins, don't forget; that boat leaves the
hotel dock at ten-forty-five precisely."

"Got you sir. Come on, fellows. Look out, you freshmen." 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 had known her rather well in the
days when her father was not a successful promoter. In fact, the two
had been neighbours 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 had laughed
as the boy had stared at the stunning young woman.

Jim remembered her, all right. They talked as though so many
significant years had not elapsed. She was greatly interested,
exceedingly gracious.

"Do you know," she said, "it never occurred to me that Deacon, the
Baliol rowing man, was none other than Jim Deacon. Silly of me,
wasn't it? But then I didn't even know you were in Baliol. I'm
perfectly crazy about the crew, you know. And Mother, I think, is a
worse fan than I am. You know Junior Doane, of course."

"Oh, yes--that is, I--why, yes, I know him."

"Yes." She smiled down upon him. "If you're ever down to the Groton,
do drop in. Mother would love to see you. She often speaks of your
mother." With a wave of her hand she had sped on her way.

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 acquaintance.

But Deacon did not see Jane Bostwick at the hotel--not to speak to,
at least. He was not a good dancer and held aloof when those of his
fellows who were not acquainted with guests were introduced around.
Finding a wicker settee among some palms at one side of the orchestra,
Deacon sat drinking in the scene.

It was not until the hour set for the retu