as well be up here as
dawdling about the bank at Iffley."

"We sha'n't go down till the last; Miller never lets us get out
down below."

"Well, come; here's the boat, at last."

The new boat now emerged from its shed, guided steadily to where
they were standing by Miller and the waterman. Then the coxswain
got out and called for bow, who stepped forward.

"Mind how you step now, there are no bottom boards, said Miller.

"Shall I take my jacket?"

"Yes; you had better all go down in jackets in this wind. I've
sent a man down to bring them back. Now two."

"Aye, aye!" said Drysdale, stepping forward. Then came Tom's
turn, and soon the boat was manned.

"Now," said Miller, taking his place, "are all your stretchers
right?"

"I should like a little more grease on my rollocks."

"I'm taking some down; we'll put it on down below. Are you all
right?"

"Yes."

"Then push her off--gently."

The St. Ambrose boat was almost the last, so there were no punts
in the way, or other obstructions; and they swung steadily down
past the university barge, the top of which was already covered
with spectators. Every man in the boat felt as if the eyes of
Europe were on him, and pulled in his very best form. Small
groups of gownsmen were scattered along the bank in Christchurch
meadow, chiefly dons, who were really interested in the races,
but, at that time of day, seldom liked to display enthusiasm
enough to cross the water and go down to the starting-place.
These sombre groups lighted up here and there by the dresses of a
few ladies, who were walking up and down, and watching the boats.
At the mouth of the Cherwell were moored two punts, in which
reclined at their ease some dozen young gentlemen, smoking;
several of these were friends of Drysdale's, and hailed him as
the boat passed.

"What a fool I am to be here!" he grumbled, in an undertone,
casting an envious glance at the punts in their comfortable
berth, up under the banks, and out of the wind. "I say, Brown,
don't you wish we were well past this on the way up?"

"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