“Look out, Frank, it won't be long now before we shall see who's best man; the work's beginning to tell”.
Thus invoked, I raised my eyes, and perceived that a change had come over the aspect of affairs while I had been engaged with my letter. Oaklands and Lawless were still rowing with the greatest energy, but it appeared to me that their strokes were drawn with less and less vigour each succeeding time, while their flushed faces, and heavy breathing, proved that the severe labour they had undergone had not been without its effect. The only visible difference between them was, that Lawless, from his superior training, had not, as a jocky would say, “turned a hair,” while the perspiration hung in big drops upon the brow of Oaklands, and the knotted, swollen veins of his hands stood out like tightly strained cordage.
“Hold hard!” shouted Lawless. “I say, Harry,” he continued, as soon as they left off rowing, “how are you getting on?”
“I have been cooler in my life,” replied Oaklands, wiping his face with his handkerchief.
“Well, I think it's about a drawn battle,” said Lawless; “though I am free to confess, that if you were in proper training, I should be no match for you, even with the oar.”
“What made you stop just then?” inquired Oaklands; “I'm sure I could have kept on for a quarter of an hour longer, if not more.”
“So could I,” replied Lawless, “ay, or for half an hour, if I had been put to it; but I felt the work was beginning to tell, I saw you were getting used up, and I recollected that we should have to row back with the wind against us, which, as the breeze is freshening, will be no such easy matter; so I thought if we went on till we were both done up we should be in a regular fix.”
“It's lucky you remembered it,” said Oaklands; “I was so excited, I should have gone on pulling as long as I could have held an oar; we must be some distance from Helmstone by this time. Have you any idea whereabouts we are?”
“Let's have a look,” rejoined Lawless. “Yes, that tall cliff you see there is the Nag's Head, and in the little bay beyond stands the village of Fisherton. I vote we go ashore there, have some bread and cheese, and a draught of porter at the inn, and then we shall be able to pull back again twice as well.”
This proposal seemed to afford general satisfaction; Mullins and I resumed our oars, and, in less than half an hour, we were safely ensconced in the sanded parlour of the Dolphin, while the pretty bar-maid, upon whom also devolved the duties of waitress, hastened to place before us a smoking dish of eggs and bacon, which we had chosen in preference to red herrings—the only other dainty the Dolphin had to offer us—Coleman observing that a “hard roe” was the only part of a herring worth eating, and we had had that already, as we came along.