Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 8

men with huge
calves have shouted at them and cursed them and told them their sins,
like a monk telling his beads--"Bow, you're late; Two, you're early;
Three, you're bucketing; Four, you're not bucketing enough." I listen
painfully, hoping against hope that at least one of the crew may be left
out of the catalogue, that Stroke at least may be rowing properly. But
no, Stroke is not forgotten, and even Cox doesn't always give complete
satisfaction.
Sometimes I feel that I ought to row out in my little boat and offer to
tow the incompetents back to Putney. Yet they seem somehow to travel
very easily and well. But, however harmoniously they swing past "The
Doves" or quicken to thirty-five at Chiswick Eyot, I know that in their
hearts they are hating each other. Goodness, how they must hate each
other! For ten weeks they have been rowing together in the same boring
boat, behind the same boring back. I read with grim interest about the
periodical shiftings of the crew, how Stroke has moved to the Bow
thwart, and Bow has replaced Number Three, and Number Three has
shifted to the Stroke position. They may pretend that all this is a
scientific matter of adjustment, of balance and weight and so forth. I
know better. I know that Stroke is fed up with the face of Cox, and that
the mole on Number Two's neck has got thoroughly on Bow's nerves,
and that if Number Three has to sit any longer behind Number Four's
expanse of back he will go mad. That is the secret of it all. But I
suppose they each of them hate the coach, and that keeps them

together.
Of all these sufferers perhaps Cox is most to be pitied. They all have to
eat what they're told, no doubt, yards and yards of beefsteak, and so on.
In the old days rowing men had to drink beer at breakfast; I can't think
of anything worse, except, perhaps, stout. But Cox doesn't eat anything
at all. He has to get thinner and thinner. And if there is one thing worse,
than eating beefsteak at breakfast it must be watching eight rowing men
eating beefsteak at breakfast and not eating anything yourself.
Yes, beyond question Cox is the real hero. I watch him dwindling, day
by day, from nine stone to eight stone, from eight stone to seven stone
twelve, and my heart goes out to the little fellow. And what a job it is!
If anything goes wrong, Cox did it. He kept too far out or he kept too
far in, or too much in the middle. But who ever heard of Cox doing a
brilliant piece of steering, or saving the situation, or even rising to the
occasion? His highest ambition is for The Times to say that he did his
work "adequately"--like the Second Murderer in SHAKSPEARE.
And at the finish he can't even pretend that he's tired, like the other men;
even if there was any spectacular way of showing that he was
half-frozen he couldn't do it, because he alone is responsible if one of
the steamers runs over them and they are all drowned. We ought to take
off our hats to Cox; though, of course, if we did, Stroke would think it
was intended for him.
But indeed I take off my hat to all of them; not because of the race,
which, as I say, is a piece of hypocrisy, being rowed with the tide, but
because of the terrible preparation for the race. I wonder if it is worth it.
It is true that they have lady adorers on the towing-path at Putney, and
it is even rumoured that they receive anonymous presents of chocolates.
But presumably they are not allowed to eat them, so that these can do
little to alleviate their sufferings. It is true also that for ever after (if
their wives allow it) they can hang an enormous oar on the wall and
contemplate it after dinner. But, after all, I can do that too, if I like; for
I too have rowed over the course.
And I shall have a free view of the race. But none of them will see it at

all. They will all be looking at the back of the man in front, except
Stroke, whose eye will be riveted on the second button of Cox's blazer.
What a life!
A.P.H.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Shortsighted and quick-tempered Master of Hounds.
"HI! WHAT D'YE MEAN BY HEADING MY HOUNDS WITH
THAT INFERNAL CAR? HOW THE DEUCE CAN YOU HUNT IN
A THING LIKE THAT, SIR?"]
* * * * *
"To Let, permanent, Furnished Sitting-Boots (size 6); 20s."--Local
Paper.
No, thanks; we already have a pair