g a mistake
to feel or hear or see. But as the crew settled down into the well-known
long sweep, consciousness returned, and, amid all the babel of voices on
the bank, he could hear Hardy yelling, "Steady! Well pulled! Steady!"

And now the St. Ambrose boat is well away from the boat behind, and as
it nears the Gut, it is plainly gaining on Exeter--the boat in front.

"You're gaining!" Miller mutters; and the captain responds with a wink.

Shouts come from the bank. "Now, St. Ambrose!" "Now, Exeter!"

In another moment both boats are in the Gut, and Miller, motionless as a
statue till now, calls out, "Give it her, boys! Six strokes, and we are
into them!" Old Jervis lashes his oar through the water, the boat
answers to the spurt, and Tom feels a little shock, and hears a grating
sound, as Miller shouts, "Unship oars, bow and three." The nose of the
St. Ambrose boat glides quietly up the side of the Exeter, the first
bump has been made.

Two more bumps were made on the next two nights, and bets were laid
freely that St. Ambrose would bump Oriel and become head of the river.
But the Oriel crew were mostly old oars, seasoned in many a race, and
one or two in the St. Ambrose boat were getting "stale."

Something had to be done, and when Drysdale--a
gentleman-commoner--resenting Miller's strictures on his performance at
No. 2, declined to row any more, Tom suggested that Hardy would row if
he were asked.

Hardy, shy and proud because of his poverty, was little known in St.
Ambrose; but a fast friendship had grown up between him and Tom Brown,
and he was glad enough to come into the boat at the captain's request.

The change in the boat made all the difference. Hardy was out sculling
every day on the river, and was consequently in good training. He was,
besides, a man of long, muscular arms.

It was a great race. Inch by inch St. Ambrose gained on Oriel, creeping
up slowly but surely, but the bump was not made till both boats were
close on the winning-post. So near a shave was it! As for the scene on
the bank, it was a hurly-burly of delirious joy.

St. Ambrose was head of the river!

_III.--A Crisis_

There was a certain inn, called the Choughs, where the St. Ambrose men
were in the habit of calling for ale on their way back from the river;
and it had become the correct thing for Ambrosians to make much of Miss
Patty, the landlady's niece. Considering the circumstances, it was a
wonder Patty was not more sp