"I thought so. About what year?"
The stranger told him.
Hughie grew interested.
"You must have been in D'Arcy's crew," he said,—"the great D'Arcy. My father knew him well. Were you?"
"Er—yes."
"My word!" Hughie's eyes blazed at the mention of the name, which, uttered anywhere along the waterside between Putney Bridge and Henley, still rouses young oarsmen to respectful dreams of distant emulation and middle-aged coaches to floods of unreliable reminiscence. "He must have been a wonder in his time. Did you know him well? What sort of chap was he?"
"Well—you see—I am D'Arcy," replied the stranger apologetically.
After that he gave Hughie advice about the coming race.
"I have watched the All Saints crew for three nights now," he said. "They are a fine lot, and beautifully together; but it is my opinion that they can't last."
"They're a bit too sure of themselves," said Hughie. "Too many Blues in the boat."