The Willoughby Captains | Page 7

lick his crew into shape. Parrett's boat, by all ordinary calculation, ought to win, for they had a specially good lot of men this year; and now Wyndham had left, the schoolhouse boat would be quite an orphan. Bloomfield himself was far away the best oar left in Willoughby, and if he could only get Game to work off a little of his extra fat, and bully Tipper into reaching better forward, and break Ashley of his trick of feathering under water, he had a crew at his back which it would be hard indeed to beat. This morning he was taking Game in hand, and that substantial athlete was beginning to find out that "working off one's extra fat" in a tub-pair on a warm summer morning is not all sport.
"I wonder if Tipper and Ashley will show, up," said Bloomfield, who was rowing bow for the sake of keeping a better watch on his pupil. "They promised they would. Ashley, you know--(do keep it up, Game, you're surely not blowed yet)--Ashley's about as much too light as you are too fat--(try a little burst round the corner now; keep us well out, young 'un)--but if he'll only keep his blade square till he's out of the water--(there you go again! Of course you're hot; that's what I brought you out for. How do you suppose you're to boil down to the proper weight unless you do perspire a bit?)--he'll make a very decent bow. Ah, there are Porter and Fairbairn in the schoolhouse tub--(you needn't stop rowing, Game; keep it up, man; show them how you can spurt). I never thought they'd try Porter in their boat. They might as well try Riddell. Just shows how hard-up they must be for men. How are you?" he cried, as the schoolhouse tub went clumsily past, both rowers looking decidedly nervous under the critical eye of the captain of Parrett's.
Poor Game, who had been kept hard at it for nearly a mile, now fairly struck, and declared he couldn't keep it up any longer, and as he had really done a very good spell of work, Bloomfield consented to land at the Willows and bathe; after which he and Game would run back, and young Parson might scull home the tub.
Which delightful plan Master Parson by no means jumped at. He had calculated on getting at least a quarter of an hour for his Caesar before morning chapel if they returned as they had come. But now, if he was expected to lug that great heavy boat back by himself, not only would he not get that, but the chances were he would get locked out for chapel altogether, and it would be no excuse that he had had to act as galley-slave for Bloomfield or anybody else.
"Look alive!" cries Bloomfield from the bank, where he is already stripped for his header. "And, by the way, on your way up go round to Chalker's and tell him only to stick up one set of cricket nets in our court; don't forget, now. Be quick; you've not too much time before chapel."
Saying which, he takes a running dive from the bank and leaves the luckless Parson to boil over inwardly as he digs his sculls spitefully into the water and begins his homeward journey.
Was life worth living at this rate? If he didn't tell Chalker about the nets that imbecile old groundsman would be certain to stick up half a dozen sets, and there'd be no end of a row. That was 7:30 striking now, and he had to be in the chapel at five minutes to eight, and Chalker's hut was a long five minutes from the boat-house. And then those eight French verbs and that Caesar--
It was no use thinking about them, and Parson lashed out with his sculls, caring little if that hulking tub went to the bottom. He'd rather like it, in fact, for he wanted a swim. He hadn't even had time to tub that morning, and it was certain there'd be no time now till goodness knew when--not till after second school, and then probably he'd be spending a pleasant half-hour in the doctor's study.
At this point he became aware of another boat making down on him, manned by three juniors, who were making up in noise and splashing what they lacked in style and oarsmanship.
Parson knew them yards away. They were rowdies of Welch's house, and he groaned inwardly at the prospect before him. The boy steering was our old acquaintance Pilbury, and as his boat approached he shouted out cheerily, "Hullo, there, Parson! mind your eye! We'll race you in--give you ten yards and bump you in twenty! Pull away, you fellows! One, two, three, gun! Off you go! Oh, well rowed, my