Dishy was one of the few who dared to address Marrable in this strain.
The two installed themselves in the hansom, and while the experienced animal between the shafts proceeded down Trinity Street, butting its way through sauntering pedestrians, pushing past country-parsonical governess carts, taking dogs in its stride, and shrinking apprehensively from motor-bicycles ridden by hatless youths in bedroom slippers, they discussed affairs of state.
"There's only one way to do it, Dishy," said Marrable. "I'm going stroke."
Dishy nodded approvingly.
"It's the only thing to do," he said. "But who is going to row seven—Stroke?"
"Yes."
"Bow-side will go to pieces," said Dishy with conviction.
"Perhaps. But as things are at present stroke side will."
"That's true," admitted the coxswain. "Let's see now: there'll be you stroke, Duncombe seven, Puffin six—it's worth trying anyhow. We're bound to keep away from the James' people, so we might as well have a shot."
"Clear out now," said Marrable, "and go round and tell the men to be at the boathouse by four, and we'll have a ten minutes' outing in the new order. Then, when you've done that, cut down to the boathouse and tell Jerry to alter my stretcher and Duncombe's."