“Silence in the bows?” shouted Miller.
“You devil, how I hate you!” growled Drysdale, half in jest and half in earnest, as they sped along under the willows.
Tom got more comfortable at every stroke, and by the time they reached the Gut began to hope that he should not have a fit or lose all his strength just at the start, or cut a crab, or come to some other unutterable grief, the fear of which had been haunting him all day.
“Here they are at last!—come along now—keep up with them,” said Hardy to Grey, as the boat neared the Gut; and the two trotted along downwards, Hardy watching the crew and Grey watching him.
“Hardy, how eager you look!”
“I'd give twenty pounds to be going to pull in the race.” Grey shambled on in silence by the side of his big friend, and wished he could understand what it was that moved him so.
As the boat shot into the Gut from under the cover of the Oxfordshire bank, the wind caught the bows.
“Feather high, now,” shouted Miller; and then added in a low voice to the Captain, “It will be ticklish work, starting in this wind.”
“Just as bad for all the other boats,” answered the Captain.
“Well said, old philosopher!” said Miller. “It's a comfort to steer you; you never make a fellow nervous. I wonder if you ever felt nervous yourself, now?”