"All right," agreed Jerry, cheerfully. After all it was an honor to steer the eight.
"Simpson, you'll stay at stroke, and, Parsons, I'm going to send you back a bit. No offence, but you're not quite quick enough in picking up the stroke. I think it's your baseball arm that's at fault. Molloy, you take Parsons' place, and Tom will go number three. From three, Henderson will go to bow. He's about the right weight for there when we get Jackson in as coxswain. And, Jerry, you'll want to shift your seat a bit aft, to make up for the extra weight they've been carrying in me. That will make a good change, I think."
There was some murmuring over the changes, and obviously nearly all were pleased. Molloy especially, for he had been fretting lest he be kept out of the eight. As for Tom he was rather glad, on the whole, that he did not have the responsibility of picking up Frank's stroke, for it was a responsibility, and it was telling on him. He had begun to realize that his baseball pitching had made him a bit awkward in one arm.
"Say, where do I come in?" suddenly asked Boswell. "I was at bow, and now—I'm nowhere, Mr. Lighton."
"I'll work you in another crew, Boswell," said the coach, sharply.
"But I want to be in the varsity."
