At this moment they came opposite the Cherwell. The leading boat was just passing the winning-post, off the university barge, and the band struck up the “Conquering Hero,” with a crash. And while a mighty sound of shouts, murmurs, and music went up into the evening sky, Miller shook the tiller-ropes again, the Captain shouted, “Now then, pick her up,” and the St. Ambrose boat shot up between the swarming banks at racing pace to her landing-place, the lion of the evening.
Dear readers of the gentler sex! you, I know, will pardon the enthusiasm which stirs our pulses, now in sober middle age, as we call up again the memories of this the most exciting sport of our boyhood (for we were but boys then, after all). You will pardon, though I fear hopelessly unable to understand, the above sketch; your sons and brothers will tell you it could not have been less technical.
For you, male readers, who have never handled an oar,—what shall I say to you? You at least, I hope, in some way—in other contests of one kind or another—have felt as we felt, and have striven as we strove. You ought to understand and sympathize with us in all our boating memories. Oh, how fresh and sweet they are! Above all, that one of the gay little Henley town, the carriage-crowded bridge, the noble river reach, the giant poplars, which mark the critical point of the course—the roaring column of “undergrads,” light blue and dark purple, Cantab and Oxonian, alike and yet how different,—hurling along together, and hiding the towing-path—the clang of Henley church-bells—the cheering, the waving of embroidered handkerchiefs, and glancing of bright eyes, the ill-concealed pride of fathers, open delight and exultation of mothers and sisters—the levee in the town-hall when the race was rowed, the great cup full of champagne (inn champagne, but we were not critical)—the chops, the steaks, the bitter beer—but we run into anti-climax—remember, we were boys then, and bear with us if you cannot sympathize.
And you, old companions, [Greek text] thranitai, benchers, (of the gallant eight-oar), now seldom met, but never-forgotten, lairds, squires, soldiers, merchants, lawyers, grave J.P.'s, graver clergymen, gravest bishops (for of two bishops at least does our brotherhood boast), I turn for a moment, from my task, to reach to you the right hand of fellowship from these pages, and empty the solemn pewter—trophy of hard-won victory—to your health and happiness.
Surely none the worse Christians and citizens are ye for your involuntary failing of muscularity!
CHAPTER XIV—A CHANGE IN THE CREW, AND WHAT CAME OF IT
It was on a Saturday that the St. Ambrose boat made the first bump, described in our last chapter. On the next Saturday, the day-week after the first success, at nine o'clock in the evening, our hero was at the door of Hardy's rooms. He just stopped for one moment outside, with his hand on the lock, looking a little puzzled, but withal pleased, and then opened the door and entered. The little estrangement which there had been between them for some weeks, had passed away since the races had begun. Hardy had thrown himself into the spirit of them so thoroughly, that he had not only regained all his hold on Tom, but had warmed up the whole crew in his favour, and had mollified the martinet Miller himself. It was he who had managed the starting-rope in every race, and his voice from the towing path had come to be looked upon as a safe guide for clapping on or rowing steady. Even Miller, autocrat as he was, had come to listen for it, in confirmation of his own judgment, before calling on the crew for the final effort.
So Tom had recovered his old footing in the servitor's rooms; and when he entered on the night in question did so with the bearing of an intimate friend. Hardy's tea commons were on one end of the table as usual, and he was sitting at the other poring over a book. Tom marched straight up to him, and leant over his shoulder.
“What, here you are at the perpetual grind,” he said. “Come; shut up, and give me some tea; I want to talk to you.”