“My rooms are right up in the roof, with a commanding view of tiles and chimney-pots.  Pleasant enough, separated from all mankind by a great iron-clamped outer door; sitting-room, eighteen by twelve; bedroom, twelve by eight; and a little cupboard for the scout.  Ah, Geordie, the scout is an institution!  Fancy me waited on and valeted by a stout party in black, of quiet, gentlemanly planners.  He takes the deepest interest in my possessions and proceedings, and is evidently used to good society, to judge by the amount of crockery and glass, wines, liquors, and grocery which he thinks indispensable for my due establishment.  He waits on me in hall, where we go in full fig of cap and gown at five, and get very good dinners, and cheap enough.

“But, after all, the river is the feature of Oxford, to my mind.  I expect I shall take to boating furiously.  I have been down the river three or four times already with some other freshmen, and it is glorious exercise, that I can see, though we bungle and cut crabs desperately at present.”

Within a day or two of the penning of this epistle, Tom realised one of the objects of his young Oxford ambition, and succeeded in embarking in a skiff by himself.  He had been such a proficient in all the Rugby games that he started off in the full confidence that, if he could only have a turn or two alone, he should satisfy not only himself but everybody else that he was a heaven-born oar.  But the truth soon began to dawn upon him that pulling, especially sculling, does not, like reading and writing, come by nature.  However, he addressed himself manfully to his task; savage, indeed, but resolved to get down to Sandford and back before hall-time, or perish in the attempt.  Fortunately, the prudent boatman had embarked our hero in one of the safest of the tubs, and it was not until he had zig-zagged down Kennington reach, slowly indeed, and with much labour, that he heard energetic shouts behind him.  The next minute the bows of his boat whirled round, the old tub grounded, and then, turning over, shot him out on to the planking of the steep descent into the small lasher.  The rush of water was too strong for him, and rolling him over, plunged him into the pool below.

After the first moment of astonishment and fright, Tom left himself to the stream, holding his breath hard, and, paddling gently with his hands, soon came to the surface, and was about to strike out for the shore when he caught sight of a skiff coming, stern foremost, down the descent after him.  Down she came, as straight as an arrow, into the tumult below, the sculler sitting upright, and holding his skulls steadily in the water.  For a moment she seemed to be going under, but righted herself, and glided swiftly into the still water, while the sculler glanced round till he caught sight of our hero’s half-drowned head.

“Oh, there you are!” he said, looking much relieved, “Swim ashore; I’ll look after your boat.”