On the roof of the barge he could see Kay, with Harry standing beside her. His mother and father, most manifestly proud of him, were there. Glory—yes, she was waving. But they—all of them together—they counted for so little because Cherry was absent. It was his great week. He was proving himself a man—more than a dreamer. Every night his eight had made its bump. People said that it was the stroke-oar who had done it. He so wanted her to see him. He was going to stroke Calvary to the head of the river. It was the last night; only Christ Church was in front.
All along the bank to his right lay college barges, gay and animated with girls and flowers. Behind still trees of the meadows, beneath which cattle grazed, spires and domes soared dreamily against the deep horizon.
The others were working as one man behind him. The eight jumped forward as though it were a live thing. How fit he felt!
Punts and canoes blocked their passage.
“Look ahead, sir. Look ahead.”
They had to halt. From the tow-path men shouted encouragement, “Calvary—up! Up!”
They rang dinner-bells, banged gongs, twirled rattles, fired pistols. It was deafening, maddening.
Other eights passed them, shooting down to Iffley to the lower stations. Some were crews they had defeated on previous evenings. Then came Christ Church, broad shoulders and tanned bodies swinging. They stopped rowing, and rattled their oars in salute and challenge.
The red-headed cox, glancing at the rivals, leant forward and spoke to Peter. “They’re top o’ their training. It’ll be a long chase. We’ll catch ‘em by the barges.”
Peter nodded and squared his mouth doggedly. “By the barges, if not earlier. Anyway, we’ll catch ‘em.”