So Tom swam ashore, and stood there dripping and watching the other righting his tub and collecting the sculls and bottom-boards floating here and there in the pool.  Tom had time to look him well over, and was well satisfied with the inspection.  There was that in his face that hit Tom’s fancy, and made him anxious to know him better.  There were probably not three men in the university who would have dared to shoot the lasher in the state it was then.

It was settled, at Tom’s earnest request, that he should pull the sound skiff up—­his old tub was leaking considerably—­while his companion sat in the stern and coached him.  Tom poured out his thanks for his new tutor’s instructions, which were given so judiciously that he was conscious of improving at every stroke.

He disappeared, however, while Tom was wrangling with the manager as to the amount of damage done to the tub, and when Tom, to his joy, saw him come into hall to dinner he took no notice of Tom’s looks of recognition.  He learned from his neighbour that his name was Hardy, that he was one of the servitors, a clever fellow, but a very queer one.  Tom resolved to waylay him as soon as hall was over; but Hardy avoided him.

II.—­Summer Term

Jervis, the captain of the St. Ambrose Boat Club; Miller, the cox; and Smith, commonly known as Diogenes Smith—­from a habit he had of using his hip-bath as an armchair—­were determined to make a success of the boat, and Tom had the good fortune to get a place in the college eight—­an achievement which is always a feather in the cap of a freshman.

When the summer term came Miller at once took the crew in hand.

Then came the first night of the races, and at half-past three Tom was restless and distracted, knowing that two hours and a half had got to pass before it was time to start for the boats.

However, at last the time slipped away, and the captain and Miller mustered their crew at the college gates, and walked off to the river.  Half the undergraduates of Oxford streamed along with them.  No time was lost on arrival at the barge in the dressing-room, and in two minutes the St. Ambrose eight were all standing, in flannel trousers, silk jerseys, and jackets, at the landing-place.

Then the boat swung steadily down past the mouth of the Cherwell, and through the Gut to the starting-place.  Hark!  The first gun!

All the boats have turned, crowds of men on the bank are agitated with the coming excitement.

Jervis, quiet and full of confidence, looks round from his seat—­he is stroking—­takes a sliced lemon from his pocket, puts a small piece into his mouth, and passes it on.

“Jackets off,” says Miller.  And the jackets are thrown on shore, and gathered up by the boatman.

“Eight seconds more only!” Miller calls out.  “Look out for the flash!  Remember, all eyes in the boat!”

There it comes at last, the flash of the starting gun.  The boat breaks away with a bound and a dash.  The oars flash in the water, and the boat leaps forward.