And now they were well in sight—two men with bent backs and arms that worked like levers, each seated in a machine as narrow as a needle, with long wooden legs which stuck out on either side, striding the water and keeping the balance. They looked like human egg-beaters gone mad. The river rose to its feet; the winning-post was nearing. The channel of free water seemed to narrow as skiffs, gigs, punts, dingeys and every kind of craft pressed closer to the booms which marked the course.
Something happened. Both men drooped inertly forward over trailing sculls. It was dramatic, this immediate transition from frantic energy to listless collapse. Hats were tossed up. Launches shrieked and whistled. Everyone tried to make more noise than his neighbor, Peter with the rest. “Well rowed. Well rowed, sir. Well rowed.”
When the clamor had died down he turned to where the man had been standing. “Who won?” And then, “Oh, I beg your pardon.”
He was gazing into the amused face of a girl with gray eyes and brown-black hair, that swept like a cloud across a Clear white forehead.
“Who won! Roy Hardcastle, of course. England’s not beaten yet.”
He wasn’t thinking of England’s honor; the race—it had never happened. He was looking at her mouth. They called her Cherry, because her lips were red.
She was going from him. How straight she was! How slender! Like a slim spring flower—a narcissus, perhaps. He went after her and raised his hat. “Forgive me for speaking to you. Just a minute before a man was standing there, and—-”
“That’s all right,” she said; “I understand.”
Again she was on the point of leaving. He had to make certain. “Since I’ve been so rude already, would you mind if I asked you one more question?”
She looked him over casually and seemed more satisfied that she was willing to admit to anyone but herself. “Not at all.”