used to row a lot when a kid, and I guess I haven't forgotten."
"He's too light by fifteen pounds," declared Frank, in a low voice. "About one hundred and sixty is a good average."
"Thank goodness we're all of us that," said Tom, looking at the chums gathered about him.
"Are there going to be single races?" asked a lad, stepping up to join the group. He was a well dressed chap, reputed to be wealthy in his own right. His name was Reginald Boswell.
"Why, yes, Reggie," said Tom, in the drawling tones affected by the other, "we count on having single shells. Are you going to compete?"
"Aw, say, I wish you wouldn't call be Reggie. I hate that name!" exclaimed the lad, who was completing his Freshman year. "Cawn't you call me just—er—Boswell?"
"How would Bossy do for short, me lad?" asked Bricktop. "Not that you're a calf, you know; but Bossy has a sweet sound, thinkest thou not so, my comrades?" and he appealed to his chums with accompanying winks.
"Aw, I say now, quit spoofing me, cawn't you?" appealed the rich lad. "Bossy is too rotten silly, you know," and he drew a scented handkerchief from the pocket of his rather loud, and swagger clothes, which, as he always took the trouble to inform all who appeared interested, were made in
