"Well--you see--I _am_ D'Arcy," replied the stranger apologetically.

After that he gave Hughie advice about the coming race.

"I have watched the All Saints crew for three nights now," he said.

"They are a fine lot, and beautifully together; but it is my opinion that they can't last."

"They're a bit too sure of themselves," said Hughie. "Too many Blues in the boat."

"How many?"

"Four. Seven, Six, Five, and Bow."

"Good! They are probably labouring under the delusion that a boat with four Blues in it is four times as good as a boat with one Blue in it.

Consequently they haven't trained very hard, especially those two fat men in the middle of the boat. What about their Stroke?"

"Pretty enough, but a rotter when it comes to the pinch."

"Good again! Well, these fellows have not once been extended during the races, for you gave them no sort of a run last night. You went to bits at the start and never quite recovered. However, that will give All Saints some false confidence, which is just what we want. Now what do you propose to do to-night? Jump on to their tails at the start?"

"No good," said Hughie. "They are too old birds for that game. Besides, my crew want very carefully working up to a fast stroke. I can't trust Six at anything above thirty-four. He'll go on rowing that all day; but if I quicken up to thirty-six or seven he gets fl.u.s.tered, and forty sends him clean off his nut after about a minute. No, we must just wear them down."

"Quite right," said D'Arcy. "If you are within a length at the Railway Bridge you ought just to do it."

"The difficulty is," said Hughie ruefully, "that the crew are only good for about one spurt. It's a good spurt, I must say, but if it fails we are done. They can never slow down to a steady stroke again--especially Six. So it simply has to be made at the right moment. The difficulty is to know when."

"Have you got a reliable c.o.x?"

"First-cla.s.s."

"Can't he tell you?"

"Too much row going on," said Hughie. "The whole College will be on the towpath to-night."

The Reverend Montague D'Arcy plunged his hand into the tail-pocket of his clerical frock-coat, and produced therefrom a large-pattern service revolver.

"Look here," he said. "You would be able to hear this lethal weapon on the Day of Judgment itself. Will you consent to take your time from me?"

"Rather! Thank you, sir." There was no doubting the sincerity of Hughie's grat.i.tude.

"Well," continued the clergyman briskly, "I shall wait by the Railway Bridge, on the Barnwell side, away from the towpath. If you have made your b.u.mp before that you won't want me. Well and good. But I don't think you _will_ have made it, and I don't advise you to try. For the first half of the course those All Saints men will match you stroke for stroke, and if you hustle your heavy man at Six he will probably lose his head. As you pa.s.s under the Railway Bridge quicken slightly--not more than two strokes a minute, though. I have six shots in this revolver. When you hear two of them, that will mean that you are getting within jumping distance and must be ready for the spurt. When you hear the remaining four in quick succession you must simply swing out and put the very last ounce of your blood and bones and bodies and souls into it. And if you catch 'em," concluded the reverend gentleman, "by gad!

I'll dance the Cachuca on the bank!"

By this time they had reached the spot where their racing-sh.e.l.l--sixty-two feet of flimsy cedar wood--was lying waiting for them. The rest of the crew, already a.s.sembled, were standing about in the att.i.tudes of profound dejection or forced hilarity which appear to be the only alternatives of deportment open to men who are suffering from what is expressively termed "the needle." Some were whistling, others were yawning, and all were wondering why on earth men took up rowing as a pastime.

Hughie gathered his Argonauts into a knot, and at his request the Reverend Montague D'Arcy outlined to them the plan of campaign. Then the crew embarked, and the stout clergyman a.s.sisted the grizzled College boatman--the only person present whose nerves appeared unaffected by the prevailing tension--to push their craft clear of the bank, and set them going on a half-minute dash as a preliminary to their long paddle down the course to the starting point of the race.

In accordance with a picturesque but peculiar custom they wore in their straw hats bunches of marigolds and corn-flowers--the College colours--as an intimation that they had achieved b.u.mps during the preceding nights; and so bedecked they paddled majestically down the Long Reach, feeling extremely valorous and looking slightly ridiculous, to challenge a comparison (in which they were hopelessly outcla.s.sed from the start) with the headgear of the a.s.sembled fair in Ditton Paddock.

The method of sending off a b.u.mping race is the refinement of cruelty.

As each boat reaches its starting-post the crews disembark and stand dismally about, listening to the last exhortations of coaches or nervously eyeing the crew behind them. Presently an objectionably loud piece of artillery, situated half-way down the long line of boats, goes off with a roar. This is called "first gun," and means chiefly that there will be another in three minutes. The crew mournfully denude themselves of a few more articles of their already scanty wardrobe, which they pile upon the shoulders of the perspiring menial whose duty it is to convey the same to the finishing-post, and crawl one by one into their places in the boat. Finally, the c.o.xswain coils himself into his seat and takes both rudder-lines in his left hand, leaving the right free to grasp the end of the boat's last link with _terra firma_, her starting-chain. Then the second gun goes, and the crew shudder and know that in sixty seconds precisely they must start.

The ritual observed during the final minute is complicated in the extreme, and varies directly with the nervous system of the coach, who dances upon the bank with a stop-watch in his hand, to time the ministrations of the College boatman, who stands by with a long boat-hook ready to prod the vessel into midstream.

"Fifteen seconds gone," says the coach. "Push her out, Ben."

Ben complies, with a maddening but wise deliberation. If the boat is pushed out too promptly the starting-chain will grow taut and tug the stern of the boat inwards towards the bank, just when her nose should be pointing straight upstream. But this elementary truth does not occur to the frenzied octette in the boat. The gun will go, and bow-side will find their oar-blades still resting on the towpath. They _know_ it.

"Thirty seconds gone," says the coach. "Paddle on gently, Bow and Two."

His object is to get the full advantage of the length of the chain, but Bow and Two know better. They are convinced that he merely desires that they shall be caught at a disadvantage when the gun fires. However, they paddle on as requested, with a palsied stealthiness that suggests musical chairs.

"Fifteen seconds left," says the coach. "Are you straight, c.o.x? Ten more sec--"

Ah! As usual the chain has drawn tight, and the stern of the boat is being dragged inwards again.

"Paddle on, Two!" yells the c.o.xswain.

Two gives a couple of frenzied digs; the Dervish with the watch, accompanied by a ragged and inaccurate chorus all down the bank, chants "Five, four, three, two--"; there is a terrific roar from the gun; the c.o.xswain drops the chain; the boatman slips the point of his boat-hook (which, between ourselves, has been doing the lion's share in keeping the ship's head straight) from Five's rigger; and they are off.

The Benedictine crew got under way very unostentatiously. Their coach was actually rowing in the All Saints boat,--and it would be difficult to select a more glowing testimonial to the sterling sportsmanship of English rowing,--so the starting operations were wisely left to the College boatman, who had performed the office for something like half a century. The flight of time was recorded by Hughie himself, from the watch which hung on his stretcher beside his right foot. The experienced Mr. Dishart-Watson kept those too-often fatally intimate acquaintances, the rudder-lines and starting-chain, tactfully apart, and the St.

Benedict's boat got off the mark with a start that brought her within a length of All Saints during the first half-minute.

After that their opponents drew away. As D'Arcy had said, they were a seasoned crew, and nothing short of sheer superiority would wear them down. The two boats swung round Gra.s.sy Corner and entered the Plough Reach about their distance apart. All Saints were rowing the faster stroke.

Hughie, who was keeping to a steady thirty-two, felt with satisfaction that the men behind him were well together. Number Seven, small but plucky, was setting bow-side a beautiful example in steady swing and smart finish. Six--Mr. Puffin--was rowing a great blade. To look at him now, you would ask why he had not been included in the University Crew.

If you saw him trying to row forty to the minute, you would marvel that he should be included in any crew at all.

Five was not looking happy. He was lying back too far and tugging at the finish. To him the boat seemed heavier than usual, for he was just beginning to realise the difference between seconding the efforts of Hughie Marrable and those of Mr. Duncombe. Still, he was plugging gamely. Four, a painstaking person, was encouraging himself in a fashion entirely his own. After every stroke, as he sat up and swung forward, he gasped out some little _sotto voce_ remark to himself, such as, "Oh, well _rowed_, Four!--Stick to it, Four!--Use your _legs_, old man!--That's better!--That's a _beauty_!--Oh, well _rowed_, Four!" And so on. Where he got the necessary breath for these exercises n.o.body knew; but some folk possess these little peculiarities, and row none the worse for them. Bow was another instance. He was a chirpy but eccentric individual, and used to sing to himself some little ditty of the moment--or possibly a hymn--all through a race, beginning with the first stroke and ending exactly, if possible, with the last. He had been known, when stroking a boat, to quicken up to a perfectly incredible rate simply because he feared that the song would end before he completed the course, a contingency which he regarded as unlucky in the extreme. On the other hand, he would become quite depressed if he had to stop in the middle of a verse, and he was quite capable of rowing _rallentando_ if he desired to synchronise his two conclusions.

But few people have the time or inclination for these diversions while oscillating upon a sixteen-inch slide, and the rest of the crew were swinging at and plugging in grim silence.

The two boats swept into the roaring medley of Ditton Corner. They flashed past the row of piles and tethered punts amid a hurricane of shouts and waving handkerchiefs. Hughie, wrongfully exercising his privilege as Stroke, allowed his eyes to slide to the right for a moment. He had a fleeting glimpse of the crimson and excited countenance of Miss Gaymer, as some man held her aloft in the crowd. Then the boat gave a slight lurch, and Joey was swallowed up again. Hughie felt guiltily responsible for the lurch, and recalling his gaze into the proper channel--straight over the c.o.xswain's right shoulder--swung out again long and steadily.

"Are we straight yet?" he gasped to Dishy.

"Yes--just."

"Tell 'em to reach out a bit."

Mr. Watson complied, in tones that rose high above the tumult on the bank and penetrated even into the harmonious soul of Bow, who was grappling with a difficult cadenza at the moment.

"Six good ones!" said Hughie, next time his face swung up towards the c.o.xswain's.

"Now, you men, six good ones!" echoed Dishy. "_One! Two!_ Five, you're late! _Three! Four! Five!_ Bow, get hold of it! _Six!_ Oh, well rowed!"

There was a delighted roar from the bank. The Benedictine crew were together again after the unsteadiness round Ditton.