“Get ready. Paddle.”

Peter’s oar gripped the water. The seven men behind him swung out. For a second he raised his eyes from the boat, searching the faces on the barge. She wasn’t there—Cherry. The Faun Man had promised to bring her up to Oxford for the last great race of Eights’ Week. Perhaps she had refused to come. Perhaps the train was late. Perhaps——.

On the roof of the barge he could see Kay, with Harry standing beside her. His mother and father, most manifestly proud of him, were there. Glory—yes, she was waving. But they—all of them together—they counted for so little because Cherry was absent. It was his great week. He was proving himself a man—more than a dreamer. Every night his eight had made its bump. People said that it was the stroke-oar who had done it. He so wanted her to see him. He was going to stroke Calvary to the head of the river. It was the last night; only Christ Church was in front.

All along the bank to his right lay college barges, gay and animated with girls and flowers. Behind still trees of the meadows, beneath which cattle grazed, spires and domes soared dreamily against the deep horizon.

The others were working as one man behind him. The eight jumped forward as though it were a live thing. How fit he felt!

Punts and canoes blocked their passage.

“Look ahead, sir. Look ahead.”

They had to halt. From the tow-path men shouted encouragement, “Calvary—up! Up!”

They rang dinner-bells, banged gongs, twirled rattles, fired pistols. It was deafening, maddening.

Other eights passed them, shooting down to Iffley to the lower stations. Some were crews they had defeated on previous evenings. Then came Christ Church, broad shoulders and tanned bodies swinging. They stopped rowing, and rattled their oars in salute and challenge.

The red-headed cox, glancing at the rivals, leant forward and spoke to Peter. “They’re top o’ their training. It’ll be a long chase. We’ll catch ‘em by the barges.”

Peter nodded and squared his mouth doggedly. “By the barges, if not earlier. Anyway, we’ll catch ‘em.”

Would she be there? Inside his head he was trying to picture her. How would she be dressed? A year since they met! So long!

They came to their station. Astern lay the other boats, trailed out one behind the other, pointing their noses upstream for the start. He turned to look ahead; the Christ Church crew were pulling off their scarfs.

Hardcastle, who was rowing at seven, leant forward and touched him, “For God’s sake, keep it long and steady.”

A deep boom, muttering and ominous. The minute-gun had sounded. Someone on the bank, with a watch in his hand, commenced counting off the seconds. College-bargemen eased the eight out into the river, maneuvering with poles to get her prow at the right angle, so no time might be lost.

“Are you ready?”

The counting stopped. Peter brought his slide forward, bracing his feet against the stretcher. A pause, still as death. The last gun sounded.

“Row, you devils. Pick it up. Six, you’re late. Steady coming forward. Up, Calvary! Up!”

The blades whipped the water, the river boiled past them. From the bank came the clamor of running feet and shouting, as if an asylum had been freed for a holiday.

Peter saw nothing—only the red fiend of a cox, his mouth wide open, screaming shrill oaths of rebuke or encouragement. He had stopped cursing. He was giving them tens.

Peter quickened his stroke. From one to ten, over and over, the counting went on. Would it never stop? He ached in every muscle. Could he never slack off? He clenched his teeth and spurted. The boat responded.

“Back him up,” yelled the cox; “you’re gaining.”

Peter wondered whether they were; he longed to turn and see for himself.

“Now, then, for all you’re worth. Well rowed, Calvary. Well rowed, indeed. Stick to it.”

Left to itself, his body would have crumbled. His back felt broken. There was a buzzing in his head. Something stronger than will power—a corporate spirit of honor, which the men behind him shared—kept him going.

“Give her ten.”

The cox was counting again. His face was as flaming as his hair with excitement; he was swinging with the oarsmen, as if the jerking of his slight body could make the boat travel faster.

“Going up, Calvary. Half a length.”

Ha! The cox wasn’t lying now. Peter could feel the wash of the eight they were pursuing. They were creeping up slowly. From the bank his name was thundered.

“Barrington. Barrington. Well rowed, Barrington. Row like hell.”

By jingo, he would! He’d show ‘em! There shouldn’t be anything left of him. And Cherry——.

Everything was growing dark. Sometimes the mist before his eyes parted; he caught glimpses of the flaring head of the cox. Sometimes he could see nothing, and heard only the endless shouting, bidding him row faster, always faster. Where were they? Had the race only just commenced? He seemed to have been struggling for hours. The dread grew up in him that he would never reach the end. He would collapse. He——. But still he went on.

Women’s voices! They must be passing the barges, racing down the last of the course. When his sight cleared, he saw them—steep banks of women’s faces, shining and nodding, and fluttering into the far distance.

Christ Church! By Jove, they must be nearly on them. He could feel the turmoil of the beaten water. They were rowing Christ Church down.

“Give her ten.”

The cox was counting hysterically. Peter tried to pick it up. He couldn’t. He knew it. He was going to pieces. His stroke was flagging. And then——. What was that?

“Peter. Peter. Peter.”

As the eight fled by he heard it—a girl’s voice frantically urging him. And a man’s—he heard that, too. “Go it, Peter. Well rowed, old top.”

Only the Faun Man would have called him old top. She was there to see him! His last strength returned. He pulled himself together and swung out. The oars behind him were getting in late; he could feel the boat dragging. It didn’t matter; he’d take her to the head of the river, if he were the only man left rowing.

Bedlam was all about him. The cox bent forward, shrieking at him, trying to make himself heard above the racket. He caught what he said: “Only a foot now.”

What was happening? A jerk! The boat paused and shuddered. It had touched something. Then again it started forward. Someone was telling him to stop. He wouldn’t stop; they’d wanted him to go on before. He was going to make sure. By his side he saw something like a broken bird, trailing in the water. Then he saw eight men, fallen forward, spent and panting. People were cheering. On the bank they were dancing. The cox laid his hands on his oar to stay him. He was grinning from ear to ear. “You silly devil! Leave off!”

It dawned on him. They’d made their bump—gone ahead of the river. And she’d been there to watch him!