the boat and, in the dusk of the late Spring evening, walked toward his room. "This ought to stand me in good stead for the eight. My muscles are hardening," and he felt of his biceps. He was in extraordinarily good training from his baseball work.
As he was about to enter the building where he and his chums had their rooms, he saw Boswell approaching. Tom's mind flashed to the card he had picked up at the shack.
"I wonder what he could have been doing there?" the tall pitcher mused. "If Mendez didn't have his store open and his stock ready for sale, how could Bossy have bought any? And, if he didn't go there to buy anything, why did he go at all? I give it up."
There was no time for further speculation just then, as the rich lad, with a nod, addressed Tom.
"Where were you?" he asked with an air of familiarity that Tom rather resented in a Freshman. "We had a fine row in the eight. I'm almost sure of bow, and Lighton may shift me to stroke, or number seven."
"Yes?" questioned Tom indifferently, yet resolving to make a brave struggle not to let this usurper put him out of his place in the boat.
"Sure thing. I'm coming on fine, and I've got a dandy scheme for keeping in trim this Summer."
"Yes?"
