For the first ten strokes Tom was in too great fear of making a mistake to feel or hear or see.  But as the crew settled down into the well-known long sweep, consciousness returned, and, amid all the babel of voices on the bank, he could hear Hardy yelling, “Steady!  Well pulled!  Steady!”

And now the St. Ambrose boat is well away from the boat behind, and as it nears the Gut, it is plainly gaining on Exeter—­the boat in front.

“You’re gaining!” Miller mutters; and the captain responds with a wink.

Shouts come from the bank.  “Now, St. Ambrose!” “Now, Exeter!”

In another moment both boats are in the Gut, and Miller, motionless as a statue till now, calls out, “Give it her, boys!  Six strokes, and we are into them!” Old Jervis lashes his oar through the water, the boat answers to the spurt, and Tom feels a little shock, and hears a grating sound, as Miller shouts, “Unship oars, bow and three.”  The nose of the St. Ambrose boat glides quietly up the side of the Exeter, the first bump has been made.

Two more bumps were made on the next two nights, and bets were laid freely that St. Ambrose would bump Oriel and become head of the river.  But the Oriel crew were mostly old oars, seasoned in many a race, and one or two in the St. Ambrose boat were getting “stale.”

Something had to be done, and when Drysdale—­a gentleman-commoner—­resenting Miller’s strictures on his performance at No. 2, declined to row any more, Tom suggested that Hardy would row if he were asked.

Hardy, shy and proud because of his poverty, was little known in St. Ambrose; but a fast friendship had grown up between him and Tom Brown, and he was glad enough to come into the boat at the captain’s request.

The change in the boat made all the difference.  Hardy was out sculling every day on the river, and was consequently in good training.  He was, besides, a man of long, muscular arms.

It was a great race.  Inch by inch St. Ambrose gained on Oriel, creeping up slowly but surely, but the bump was not made till both boats were close on the winning-post.  So near a shave was it!  As for the scene on the bank, it was a hurly-burly of delirious joy.

St. Ambrose was head of the river!

III.—­A Crisis

There was a certain inn, called the Choughs, where the St. Ambrose men were in the habit of calling for ale on their way back from the river; and it had become the correct thing for Ambrosians to make much of Miss Patty, the landlady’s niece.  Considering the circumstances, it was a wonder Patty was not more spoilt than was the case.  As it was, Hardy had to admit that the girl held her own well, without doing or saying anything unbecoming a modest woman.  But he was convinced that Tom was in her toils, and after pondering what he ought to do, decided to speak plainly.

Tom had gone into Hardy’s rooms according to his custom, after hall; and Hardy at once opened fire concerning the Choughs.