"Row, man, row!" he urged. "The Gallopin Gent's got through."
II
The colour of apple-blossom, coming and going in the lad's cheek, died away, and left him pale.
He was a splendid stripling, sun in his hair, sun in his eyes; with something of the lank grace of the fawn about him.
The face was fine almost to haggardness; with long chin, delicate nose, and eager eyes, very shy.
The boy had broken through the chrysalis of childhood, and not yet emerged into the fighting male. There was no down on his chin; the radiance of his cheek was yet undimmed. The soul, rosy behind its clouds, still tinged them with dawn-lights.
He was a Boy, sparkling Boy; Boy at the age when he is Woman, and Woman at her best, the playfellow, the tease, the inspiration; free of limb, as yet untrammelled of mind; with passionate hatreds and heroic adorations.
He was steering now, his eyes on the battered topsails in the mists before him; and in those eyes a glitter of swords. Had his mother or Gwen been there, they could have told from that frosty calm, those jealous-drooping lids, that Master Boy meant mischief.
And so it was.
This fat fellow with the heaving shoulders on the thwart before him, this chap with the crease across his bald neck, and the black sweat trickling from his hair, had insulted him.