Soon afterwards, coffee came in and cigars were lighted; a large section of the party went off to play pool, others to stroll about the streets, others to whist; a few, let us hope, to their own rooms to read; but these latter were a sadly small minority even in the quietest of St. Ambrose parties.
Tom, who was fascinated by the heroes at the head of the table, sat steadily on, sidling up towards them as the intermediate places became vacant, and at last attained the next chair but one to the Captain, where for the time he sat in perfect bliss. Blake and Miller were telling boating stories of the Henley and Thames regattas, the latter of which had been lately started with great eclat; and from these great yearly events, and the deeds of prowess done thereat, the talk came gradually round to the next races.
“Now, Captain,” said Miller, suddenly, “have you thought yet what new men we are to try in the crew this year?”
“No, 'pon my honor I haven't,” said the Captain, “I'm reading, and have no time to spare. Besides, after all, there's lots of time to think about it. Here we're only half through Lent term, and the races don't begin till the end of Easter term.”
“It won't do,” said Miller, “we must get the crew together this term.”
“Well, you and Smith put your heads together and manage it,” said the Captain. “I will go down any day, and as often as you like, at two o'clock.”
“Let's see,” said Miller to Smith, “how many of the old crew have we left?”
“Five, counting Blake,” answered Diogenes.
“Counting me! well, that's cool,” laughed Blake; “you old tub haunting flute-player, why am I not to be counted?”
“You never will train, you see,” said Diogenes.