“Does it?” cried the indignant King—“does it make it all right! I’ll make it all right for him, I can promise him. I never sneaked of him in my life!”
“Wire in, old man, and get to the race,” urged Parson impatiently.
“Here, this looks like it,” said Telson, reading. “‘Being the boat-race no afternoon school I am pleased. A vast mass on the towpath I being in flannels waited twenty-three minutes for the start. Meditating as I stood, how vast is the world.’ (Hullo! he had that before; that seems to be his usual meditation.) ‘How vast is the world. I am small in the world Parson is a conceited ass.’”
Parson turned very red in the face, of course, at this unexpected turn, which, however, his two companions greatly enjoyed.
“‘Parson is a conceited ass—’”
“I say, you needn’t go over it twice,” expostulated the injured youth.
“‘A conceited ass,’” continued Telson, his voice wavering with suppressed laughter. “‘He thinks he is a great man but he’s little in the world and fond of gross conduct. He and Telson are the conceitedest asses in Willoughby.’”
This double shot fairly broke down the gravity both of reader and audience, and it was some little time before the diary could proceed. The account of the race which followed was evidently not original. It appeared to be copied verbatim from an account of the last University Boat-race, with a few interpolations intended to adapt it to the present circumstances. It began thus:
“‘Punctually at half-past eight (“eight” scratched out and “three” substituted) Mr Searle (altered to Mr Parrett) gave the signal to go, and at the word the sixteen oars dashed simultaneously into the water. The Oxonians were the first to show a lead, and at the Creek (“Creek” scratched out and nothing substituted) were a foot to the good. The Craydle is a pleasing river with banks running up from the sea to slopes up the Concrete Wall this advantage was fully maintained (“maintained” altered to “lost”)—’”
“Oh, skip all that,” said Parson impatiently; “go on to the part about Willow Corner.”