"Six good ones!" said Hughie, next time his face swung up towards the coxswain's.
"Now, you men, six good ones!" echoed Dishy. "One! Two! Five, you're late! Three! Four! Five! Bow, get hold of it! Six! Oh, well rowed!"
There was a delighted roar from the bank. The Benedictine crew were together again after the unsteadiness round Ditton.
"How far?" signalled Hughie's lips.
"Length—and—a—half," replied Cox. "Less," he added, peering ahead.
They were half-way up the Long Reach now. In another minute or two they would be at the Railway Bridge, beyond which hard-pressed boats are popularly supposed to be safe.
"Tell 'em—going—quicken," gurgled Hughie, "if can."
Cox nodded, rather doubtfully, and Hughie ground his teeth. If only this accursed noise on the bank would cease, even for five seconds, Dishy would get a chance to make the crew hear. As it was, the ever-increasing crowd, rolling up fresh adherents like a snowball, made that feat almost an impossibility.
But the coxswain was a man of experience and resource. Just as the boat passed under the Railway Bridge itself there was a momentary silence, for the crew were shut off from their supporters by some intervening balks of timber. Dishy seized the opportunity.
"Be ready to quicken," he yelled. "Now! Oh, well done!"