It was almost noon when, after a three-mile drive from the railroad station, the St. Timothy’s crew arrived at the St. John’s boat-house—a pretty red-shingled building, with low sloping roof arched over by great willows.
In the wide doorway the St. John’s crew waited to welcome the visitors, all but Charles, who was standing off under the willows with his father and mother. Edward alighting from the barge ran up to them, and for a moment the Crashaw family forgot all about the crews.
“Which side of the lake are you going to see the race from?” asked Edward. St. Timothy’s or St. John’s?”
“Dear me, how are we to decide!” exclaimed Mrs. Crashaw.
“There is really a better view from the St. Timothy’s side,” Charles said magnanimously. “You see up here we’re always polite and give the visitors the best of everything.”
“All right,” said Mr. Crashaw. “We’ll join the visitors.”
