S I passed down the towing path toward the stone house where the Harvard crew were resting, I saw the blue blades of four slender oars elevated above the crowd, and passing through the closely wedged ranks. The men who carried them, the Oxford Four, appeared on the river's bank—four fine looking young fellows, with the coxswain, a mere lad, in their rowing suits. They were going to take a paddle preparatory to the race, for half a mile up the Thames toward the Duke of Devonshire's. They looked well, and were loudly cheered as they got into their boat. They paddled up the river.
As I passed the gate of the stone house I saw the Chevalier Wykoff and George Wilkes standing together and spoke to them both. Just at this moment the face of Loring, the stroke of the Harvard crew, appeared looking out toward the river, which was packed with boats full of people. There was something in the man's face that I did not like. I had not seen him for a few days previous. He had a huge boil under his right chin in his neck, with a white crust on the top of it; his eyes seemed wild, his manner anxious and hurried, and altogether he seemed very unsteady. I shook hands with him and asked him how he felt.
ON BOARD THE PRESS BOAT.
He said slowly, "Pretty well," and after we talked a few minutes he went in to prepare for the struggle. I stepped back to the towing path and spoke to Mr. Wilkes, who asked of me "Who is that? Is not that Mr. Loring, the Stroke of Harvard?" I answered in the affirmative. Mr. Wilkes then asked me, "What did he say? Does he feel well?" I answered, "He says he feels pretty well?" Wilkes burst out, "Pretty well! He doesn't look like it. That man's sick." and in an instant he dashed into the crowd to find some one and I lost him for the time being.
I walked down to the "Star and Garter" inn slowly, thinking of the last look I had at Loring, and I felt astonished that he should be ready to pull a race in his condition. The man was evidently in a state of exhaustion; he looked overworked, overstrained, and out of condition for a four mile and three furlong race—he who had, when at his best, only been used to pull a three mile race, turning at a stake of a mile and a half distance.
Warned by the noise and rapid movements of the crowd that something was astir, I made my way by the Star and and Garter, out of whose windows men were handing porter bottles to their friends beneath, and, walking to the river's bank, I hailed a boat with two Thames watermen in it, who pulled me through the line of Police boats to the Press boat Sunflower, which had her steam up and was getting ready.
Getting on the deck I took a look around me. Above and at our back was the old Putney Bridge, thick with human beings of both sexes. Beneath were countless steamboats and small craft, wedged together in a dense mass, covering the river behind the bridge for acres, and at our stern a huge iron chain of Vulcanic links stretched from the Star and Garter to a point off Fulham on the Middlesex shore. The chain in the middle of the river was under water, but near both shores it was visible to all the passengers on the steamboats behind Putney Bridge, but also impassable to them, however they might rage, fume, and curse at their ill-luck and guineas thrown away.
By the side of the Press boat, the Umpire's boat—a craft similar in build and appearance—was anchored, many of the passengers wearing the rival colors; the Americans drinking brandy and soda to refresh themselves, and the Englishmen giving odds on Oxford with great good will and humor.
The picture on the river was a most striking one, and worthy of a master's brush, with its vivid color, the striking dresses of the crowds, the flags and bunting from housetops and steam funnels; the green-leaved trees, their branches covered with human fruit, and the hot August sun, just losing its intensity, as a cool breeze came down from the direction of Mortlake to ruffle the surface of the river, its eddies and wavelets sparkling and dancing like diamonds of price.