“Shall I take my jacket?”
“Yes; you had better all go down in jackets in this wind. I've sent a man down to bring them back. Now two.”
“Aye, aye!” said Drysdale, stepping forward. Then came Tom's turn, and soon the boat was manned.
“Now,” said Miller, taking his place, “are all your stretchers right?”
“I should like a little more grease on my rollocks.”
“I'm taking some down; we'll put it on down below. Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Then push her off—gently.”
The St. Ambrose boat was almost the last, so there were no punts in the way, or other obstructions; and they swung steadily down past the university barge, the top of which was already covered with spectators. Every man in the boat felt as if the eyes of Europe were on him, and pulled in his very best form. Small groups of gownsmen were scattered along the bank in Christchurch meadow, chiefly dons, who were really interested in the races, but, at that time of day, seldom liked to display enthusiasm enough to cross the water and go down to the starting-place. These sombre groups lighted up here and there by the dresses of a few ladies, who were walking up and down, and watching the boats. At the mouth of the Cherwell were moored two punts, in which reclined at their ease some dozen young gentlemen, smoking; several of these were friends of Drysdale's, and hailed him as the boat passed.
“What a fool I am to be here!” he grumbled, in an undertone, casting an envious glance at the punts in their comfortable berth, up under the banks, and out of the wind. “I say, Brown, don't you wish we were well past this on the way up?”