is teeth set, his whole frame working from the hips with
the regularity of a machine? As the space still narrows, the eyes
of the fiery little coxswain flash with excitement, but he is far
too good a judge to hurry the final effort before victory is safe
in his grasp.

The two crowds mingle now, and no mistake; and the shouts come
all in a heap over the water. "Now, St. Ambrose, six strokes
more." "Now, Exeter, you're gaining; pick her up." "Mind the Gut,
Exeter." "Bravo, St. Ambrose." The water rushes by, still eddying
from the strokes of the boat ahead. Tom fancies now that he can
hear their oars, and the working of their rudder, and the voice
of their coxswain. In another moment both boats are in the Gut,
and a perfect storm of shouts reaches them from the crowd, as it
rushes madly off to the left of the footbridge, amidst which "Oh,
well steered, well steered, St. Ambrose!" is the prevailing cry.
Then Miller, motionless as a statue till now, lifts his right
hand and whirls the tassel round his head; "Give it her now,
boys; six strokes and we are into them." Old Jervis lays down
that great broad back, and lashes his oar through the water with
the might of a giant, the crew caught him up in another stroke,
the tight new boat answers to the spurt, and Tom feels a little
shock behind him, and then a grating sound, as Miller shouts
"Unship oars, bow and three," and the nose of the St. Ambrose
boat glides quietly up the side of the Exeter, till it touches
their stroke oar.

"Take care what you're coming to." It is the coxswain of the
bumped boat who speaks.

Tom, looking round, finds himself within a foot or two of him;
and, being utterly unable to contain his joy, and unwilling to
exhibit it before the eyes of a gallant rival, turns away towards
the shore, and begins telegraphing to Hardy.

"Now then, what are you at there in the bows? Cast her off quick.
Come, look alive! Push across at once out of the way of the other
boats."

"I congratulate you, Jervis," says the Exeter stroke as the St.
Ambrose boat shot past him. "Do it again next race and I sha'n't
care."

"We were within three lengths of Brazen-nose when we bumped,"
says the all-observant Miller in a low voice.

"All right," answers the Captain; "Brazen-nose isn't so strong as
usual. We sha'n't have much trouble there, but a tough job up
above, I take it."

"Brazen-nose was better steered than Exeter."

"They muffed it in the Gut, eh?" said the Cap