“Yes. You wouldn’t have been so anxious for a new race if it was our line had broken,” said Wyndham.
“Yes, we would. We’re not afraid of you!”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, we aren’t. You’re a set of cheats. Couldn’t win by fair means, so you’ve tried foul.”
“I’ll fight any one who says so,” retorted Wyndham.
How long the wrangle might have gone on, and to what riot it might have led, cannot be told. It was at its hottest, and a general fight seemed imminent, when a diversion was caused by the sudden appearance of Parson running at full speed up the path from the river.
There was something unusual in the looks and manner of the Parretts’ coxswain, which even his misadventure that afternoon was not sufficient to account for. He bore tidings of some sort, it was evident, and by common consent the clamour of the crowd was suspended as he approached.
Among the first to hail him at shouting distance was Telson.
“What’s up, old man?” he cried.
Parson rushed on a dozen yards or so before he answered. Then he yelled, in a voice half-choked with excitement, “The line was cut! It’s foul play!”