as much as the breathless strain of the spurt.

Miller, too, was in one of his most relentless moods. He was
angry at Blake's desertion, and seemed to think that Tom had
something to do with it, though he simply delivered the message
which had been entrusted to him; and so, though he distributed
rebuke and objurgation to every man in the boat except the
Captain, he seemed to our hero to take particular delight in
working him. There he stood in the stern, the fiery little
coxswain, leaning forward with a tiller-rope in each hand, and
bending to every stroke, shouting his warnings, and rebukes, and
monitions to Tom, till he drove him to his wits' end. By the time
the boat came back to Hall's, his arms were so numb that he could
hardly tell whether his oar was in or out of his hand; his legs
were stiff and aching, and every muscle in his body felt as if it
had been pulled out an inch or two. As he walked up to College,
he felt as if his shoulders and legs had nothing to do with one
another; in short, he had had a very hard day's work, and, after
going fast asleep at a wine-party, and trying in vain to rouse
himself by a stroll in the streets, fairly gave in about ten
o'clock and went to bed without remembering to sport his oak.

For some hours he slept the sleep of the dead, but at last began
to be conscious of voices, and the clicking of glasses, and
laughter, and scraps of songs; and after turning himself once or
twice in bed, to ascertain whether he was awake or no, rubbed his
eyes, sat up, and became aware that something very entertaining
to the parties concerned was going on in his sitting-room. After
listening for a minute, he jumped up, threw on his shooting-coat,
and appeared at the door of his own sitting-room, where he paused
a moment to contemplate the scene which met his astonished
vision. His fire recently replenished, was burning brightly in
the grate, and his candles on the table on which stood his whisky
bottle, and tumblers, and hot water. On his sofa, which had been
wheeled round before the fire, reclined Drysdale, on his back, in
his pet attitude, one leg crossed over the other, with a paper in
his hand, from which he was singing, and in the arm-chair sat
Blake, while Jack was coiled on the rug, turning himself every
now and then in a sort of uneasy protest against his master's
untimely hilarity. At first, Tom felt inclined to be angry, but
the jolly shout of laughter with which Drysdale received him