Hardy looked up with a grim smile.
“Are you up to a cup of tea?” he said; “look here, I was just reminded of you fellows. Shall I construe for you?”
He pointed with his finger to the open page of the book he was
reading. It was the Knights of Aristophanes, and Tom, leaning
over his shoulder, read,—
[Greek text] chata chathixion malachoz ina meh tribehz tehn en
Salamint, &c.
After meditating a moment, he burst out; “You hardhearted old ruffian! I come here for sympathy, and the first thing you do is to poke fun at me out of your wretched classics. I've a good mind to clear out and not to do my errand.”
“What's a man to do?” said Hardy. “I hold that it's always better to laugh at fortune. What's the use of repining? You have done famously, and second is a capital place on the river.”
“Second be hanged!” said Tom. “We mean to be first.”
“Well, I hope we may!” said Hardy. “I can tell you nobody felt it more than I—not even old Diogenes—when you didn't make your bump to-night.”
“Now you talk like a man, and a Saint Ambrosian,” said Tom. “But what do you think? Shall we ever catch them?” and, so saying, he retired to a chair opposite the tea things.
“No,” said Hardy; “I don't think we ever shall. I'm very sorry to say it, but they are an uncommonly strong lot, and we have a weak place or two in our crew. I don't think we can do more than we did to-night—at least with the present crew.”
“But if we could get a little more strength we might?”