Poor Game, who had been kept hard at it for nearly a mile, now fairly struck, and declared he couldn’t keep it up any longer, and as he had really done a very good spell of work, Bloomfield consented to land at the Willows and bathe; after which he and Game would run back, and young Parson might scull home the tub.
Which delightful plan Master Parson by no means jumped at. He had calculated on getting at least a quarter of an hour for his Caesar before morning chapel if they returned as they had come. But now, if he was expected to lug that great heavy boat back by himself, not only would he not get that, but the chances were he would get locked out for chapel altogether, and it would be no excuse that he had had to act as galley-slave for Bloomfield or anybody else.
“Look alive!” cries Bloomfield from the bank, where he is already stripped for his header. “And, by the way, on your way up go round to Chalker’s and tell him only to stick up one set of cricket nets in our court; don’t forget, now. Be quick; you’ve not too much time before chapel.”
Saying which, he takes a running dive from the bank and leaves the luckless Parson to boil over inwardly as he digs his sculls spitefully into the water and begins his homeward journey.
Was life worth living at this rate? If he didn’t tell Chalker about the nets that imbecile old groundsman would be certain to stick up half a dozen sets, and there’d be no end of a row. That was 7:30 striking now, and he had to be in the chapel at five minutes to eight, and Chalker’s hut was a long five minutes from the boat-house. And then those eight French verbs and that Caesar—
It was no use thinking about them, and Parson lashed out with his sculls, caring little if that hulking tub went to the bottom. He’d rather like it, in fact, for he wanted a swim. He hadn’t even had time to tub that morning, and it was certain there’d be no time now till goodness knew when—not till after second school, and then probably he’d be spending a pleasant half-hour in the doctor’s study.
At this point he became aware of another boat making down on him, manned by three juniors, who were making up in noise and splashing what they lacked in style and oarsmanship.
Parson knew them yards away. They were rowdies of Welch’s house, and he groaned inwardly at the prospect before him. The boy steering was our old acquaintance Pilbury, and as his boat approached he shouted out cheerily, “Hullo, there, Parson! mind your eye! We’ll race you in—give you ten yards and bump you in twenty! Pull away, you fellows! One, two, three, gun! Off you go! Oh, well rowed, my boat! Now you’ve got him! Wire in, now! Smash him up! scrunch him into the bank! Hooroo! two to one on us! Lay on to it, you fellows; he can’t go straight! Six more strokes and you’re into him! One, two, three—ha, ha! he’s funking it!—four, five—now a good one for the last—six! Hooroo! bump to us! Welch’s for ever!”
So saying, the hostile boat came full tilt on to the stern of the Parrett’s tub, and the outraged Parson found himself next moment sprawling on his back, with the nose of his boat firmly wedged into the clay bank of the river, while his insulting adversaries sped gaily away down stream, making the morning hideous with their shouts and laughter.
This little incident, as may be supposed, did not tend to compose the fluttered spirits of the unhappy Frederick. To say nothing of the indignity of being deliberately run down and screwed into the bank by a crew of young “Welchers,” the loss of time involved in extricating his boat from the muddy obstacle which held her by the nose, put all chance of getting in in time to go round to Chalker’s before chapel out of the question. Indeed, it looked very like a shut-out from chapel too, and that meant no end of a row.