# The Eight-Oared Victors/Chapter 12
#### CHAPTER XII
##### A FRIENDLY BRUSH

There was a small motor-boat, the property of the rowing association at Randall, having been acquired since the new interest in racing, and several times Mr. Lighton had used it to coach the lads in the fours, singles or doubles, running alongside of them. He now proposed to make use of it to coach the eight, since this was the first time (save for a few practice runs of short length) that he had not acted as coxswain. In the latter tries Jerry Jackson had steered, and, as he owned a motorboat of his own, which he ran every Summer, he was an apt pupil.
Little was said of the changes made, until the shell was well out in the river, and then Phil, who was, in the new arrangement, next to Tom, remarked:
"How do you like it, and what do you think of it?"
"I think Bossy was a calf to show his temper that way, and I like it here better than in the stern. ​I can row better when I don't have to worry about picking up Frank's stroke."
"Say, but he's a peach at it!" exclaimed Sid, admiringly, from his place at bow oar.
"Silence in the bows!" came the sharp command of Jerry Jackson.
"Listen to him," spoke Bricktop, who was at number seven.
"That won't do, boys!" came the sharp voice of the coach, as he ran his little launch up alongside. "If you're not going to accord to Jackson, while he is in the position of coxswain, the same respect you gave me, you might as well give up rowing now and for all. You can't talk and row. You need too much breath for the latter. So if you want to talk, and gibe the coxswain, then the place for you is on shore."
"Right!" exclaimed Sid. "I'll be good."
"Same here," came from Tom.
"I beg your pardon, coxswain," said Phil.
Bricktop Molloy, grinning while the sweat ran down from his forehead, outlined in red hair, into his eyes, whispered:
"What you say, goes!"
And then Bricktop, being as loyal a Randallite as there was, proceeded to row as he had never before, while Frank set a killing stroke. The little lesson was not wasted.
Running along in the launch, by means of which ​he could keep close to the shell, Mr. Lighton gave valuable advice. He could do it to better advantage now that he was not in the boat.
"Cut 'em down some," advised the coach, after Frank's little spurt. "About twenty-eight a minute will do now. We'll try a ten-mile bit to-day."
Some of the lads felt their hearts sink at this. Eight had been the limit so far, but they realized that they were in for a grilling, and they stiffened their backs to it.
"Row out your strokes," went on the coach. "Use every ounce of strength you have, and remember that your muscular force, applied at the beginning, does ten times the work as if you put it in at the end. Keep together. Get the oars in the water at the same time, and out together.
"Feather a bit higher—the water is rough today and you don't want to splash. Try to imagine you are all a part of one man rowing in a small boat. Make your oars rise and fall together. They're a bit ragged now."
With such good advice did the coach urge on the lads, and they responded nobly. In a short time, though the rowing had gone a bit awkwardly at first, there was a noticeable improvement.
As Mr. Lighton had said, the boat had been a bit heavy aft, and had dragged. With his weight gone, and with a lighter coxswain, and with the other changes, there was great improvement. ​instead of hanging in the water the shell seemed to glide through it at a steady rate. There was no jerking progress, but a steady onward movement, the perfection of rowing.
"Get a little more into the finish of the stroke!" called the coach at one point. "You must get the beginning of the stroke with the body only, but finish with the arms and shoulders. Send your elbows past your sides. Drop your shoulders, but keep up your heads and chests."
Thus he corrected fault after fault, until on the return from that row not a lad but felt he had made great improvement. They were all grateful for the change, even Tom, who had been shifted from the post of most honor, next to the stroke. Of course, Boswell, who, like Achilles, sulked in his room, could not be expected to be happy.
"It wasn't a fair thing," he declared to his chum, Elwood Pierce. "I ought to have been kept at bow, or they might have made me stroke."
"That's right, old chap," agreed Elwood. "But what can you expect of such beastly rotters? It wouldn't be that way over in Oxford."
Rumor had it that Pierce had tried to enter Oxford, but had failed miserably. He always declared that the English climate did not agree with him.
The Randall eight was within a few miles of ​their boathouse when the rowers saw approaching around the bend of the stream the Falrview eight, swinging along at a good pace. Instantly there came into the minds of all the same thought. Mr. Lighton who was alongside, must have realized it, for he called out:
"I won't mind if you have a brush with them, if they're willing. But don't get too excited or anxious over it."
"Ready!" called Jerry Jackson.
Not get excited! As well tell a racehorse not to gallop when he hears the pit-pat of hoofs behind him. The hearts of all quickened.
On came the Fairview eight out for a final practice spin. Their season was over, but they were keeping in training for the races in the Fall.
"Want a brush?" asked Jerry of Roger Barns, who was coxswain.
"Sure!" came the reply. "And we'll give you a start."
"We don't want it!" snapped Tom. "Even terms or nothing!"
"That's right! " murmured Frank, as he took a tighter grip on his oar.
The two eights were now on even terms. Mr. Lighton, with a final nod of encouragement, steered his craft out of the way.
"Give way, boys!" cried Jerry, as he grasped the tiller lines.
​"Show 'em how we row, even if Boxer Hall did beat us!" called Roger.
With eager strokes the lads took up the race, and, though it was but a friendly brush it meant more to Randall than any realized, save those thinly-clad lads in the shell. It was their first chance to see what they could do against a formidable rival.