CHAPTER THREE.
THE PARKHURST BOAT-RACE.
"Adams is wanted down at the boat-house!" Such was the sound which greeted my ears one Saturday afternoon as I lolled about in the playground at Parkhurst, doing nothing.

I jumped up as if I had been shot, and asked the small boy who brought the message who wanted me.
"Blades does; you've got to cox the boat this afternoon instead of Wilson.

Look sharp!" he said, "as they're waiting to start." Off I went, without another word, filled with mingled feelings of wonder, pride, and trepidation.

I knew Wilson, the former coxswain of the school boat, had been taken ill and left Parkhurst, but this was the first I had ever heard of my being selected to take his place.

True, I had steered the boat occasionally when no one else could be got, and on such occasions had managed to keep a moderately good course up the Two Mile Reach, but I had never dreamed of such a pitch of good fortune as being called to occupy that seat as a fixture.
But now it wanted only a week of the great race with the Old Boys, and here was I summoned to take charge of the rudder at the eleventh hour, which of course meant I would have to steer the boat on the occasion of the race! No wonder, then, I was half daft with excitement as I hurried down to the boathouse in obedience to the summons of Blades, the stroke of the Parkhurst Four.
I should explain that at Parkhurst we were peculiarly favoured in the matter of boating.