It dawned on him. They’d made their bump—gone ahead of the river. And she’d been there to watch him!
CHAPTER XXXVIII—A NIGHT OF IT
The college and its guests were assembled. Peter and his eight, with members of the crews they had defeated, were seated at the high table. The bump-supper was in progress. Scarcely anyone was absolutely sober. For the first time in history Calvary had gone up seven places and had finished head of the river.
Stoop-shouldered dons, men who held themselves aloof with a scholar’s shyness, broke their rule to-night and hobnobbed with undergraduates. The dim old college hall was-uproarious with strong laughter and bass voices. The animal splendor of youth, the rage of life, as seen that afternoon on the river, had lured them away from cramped texts and grievous truths contained in books—had opened their eyes to a more vigorous and primitive conception of living.
A German Rhodes scholar, seated next to the college chaplain, was trying to teach him that scandalous libel against all parsons, The Ballad of The Parson’s Cow. The chaplain, who on more formal occasions would have felt insulted, was doing his eager best to pick up the words and tune. He kept assuring the German Rhodes scholar of his immense gratitude. He compared The Ballad of The Parson’s Cow to Piers the Ploughman, and affected to regard it as a literary pearl of great price.
Somewhere in the distance, behind clouds of tobacco smoke, Harry was singing his latest. Dons said “Shish!” gazing round with half-hearted severity. Nobody paid them much attention. Topsy-turvydom ruled; discipline was at an end. Behind the clouds of tobacco smoke the irrepressible voice sang on; other voices swelled the volume, taking up the chorus:
“Ever been born on a Friday?
What, never been born on a Friday!