Houses grew smaller, streets more narrow and old-fashioned. Then the river, broad and full-flowing, like a vein swollen to bursting. On the bridges black specks swarmed like ants. Along the bank crowds stood packed against the parapet. Bets were being offered and taken. Ceaseless banter and laughing. Jostling. Good-natured expostulation. A hat blew off.
Mr. Grace drew up against the curb. From the point which he had selected, by standing on the roof, a glimpse could be obtained of the racing shells. He rattled his whip against the door.
“‘Ere you, Old Bright-and-Early, come h’out.”
Ocky came out—came out twirling his mustaches. He had caught the contagion of excitement. He felt himself to be more than a spectator. He wanted to talk in a loud voice to Mr. Grace, so that bystanders might overhear and know that he was an important person—young Barrington’s uncle. Good heavens, half London had left its work to see just Peter, stroking the Oxford boat against Cambridge.
During the next two hours while they waited, they swopped Peterish stories. “And ‘e sez ter me, ‘Mr. Grice,’ ‘e sez, ‘you’re my prickcaution. I’ve got somethink the matter with me; ‘magination they calls it. I wants you to promise me ter taik care of ‘er,’ ‘e sez. And I, willin’ ter h’oblige ‘im, I sez—.”
Mr. Grace sprang up. “‘Ulloa! Wot’s this? Strike me blind, if they ain’t comin’!”
The box-seat wasn’t high enough. They scrambled on to the roof. The crowd scrambled after them; the roof was thronged, without an inch to spare. Cat’s Meat straightened his forelegs, trying to see above the people’s heads.
“By gosh, they’re leading!”
“No such luck. They’re level.”
Eight men, crouched in a wooden groove as narrow as a pencil, with a ninth in the stern to guide it! The pencil looked so narrow that it was a wonder that it floated. The eight men moved as if by clock-work. Eight more followed, a quarter of a length behind. Their colors were the dark blue of Mr. Grace’s cab. The light blues of Cambridge were ahead.