“May I be jiggered,” observed the Oxbridge President, Sir WELFORARD LONGSTROKE, as he selected his fourth regalia from the Duke’s pearl-encrusted box, and lit it with all the abandon of a Society darling, “may I be jiggered if this is not ripping!  What say you?” he continued, addressing young PULYER WRIGHT, the Coxswain, and tossing him playfully four times to the raftered ceiling—­“shall we not beat the dastard foe from Camford to-morrow?” A roar of applause sprang from the smoking mouths of his seven companions.

But at this moment the Duchess of AVADRYNKE and Lord PODOPHLIN rose unobserved and quitted the room.  In another minute the sound of hurrying wheels, gradually growing fainter in the distance, was heard by no one in the avenue.  And the dance went on, and revelry rose to its maddest pitch.  But no one, who, as has been recorded above, had heard the sound of the wheels, gave a thought to the Duke of AVADRYNKE, as he sat tearing his hair in the violet bedroom, having learnt from the faithful Seneschal the terrible news of the Duchess’s elopement with the heir to the house of PODOPHLIN.

CHAPTER III.

THE morn of the race dawned clear and sparkling.  Far as the eye could reach, the banks of the river were rich with Millions, and firm enough to bear any run upon them however heavy.  But Sir WELFORARD LONGSTROKE was ill at ease.  His No. 5 had fled leaving no trace, and he had no one to fill the vacancy.  He looked the very model of an aquatic hero.  His broad chest was loosely clad in a pair of blue satin shorts, and his fair hair fell in waving masses over his muscular back.  His thoughts were bitter.  The Camford crew had started on the race some ten minutes ago, and the Oxbridge craft still waited idly in the docks for want of a No. 5.

“Surely,” Sir WELFORARD thought to himself, “PODOPHLIN might have postponed the elopement for one day.”  A confused noise interrupted his meditations.  Some ten yards from him a man roughly clad, but with the immense muscular development of the Arri Furnese Apollo, was engaged in fighting three bargees at once.  As Sir WELFORARD stepped forward, this individual struck a terrible blow.  His ponderous fist, urged by the force of a thirty-inch biceps, crashed through the chest of his first foe, severed the head of the second from his body, and struck the third, a tall man, full in the midriff, propelling him through the air into the middle of the river.  “That’s enough for one day,” he said, as with an air of haughty melancholy he removed his clay-pipe from his mouth.  His face seemed familiar to Sir WELFORARD.  Who could he be?  All doubt was removed when he advanced, grasped Sir WELFORARD by the hand, and, in tones broken with emotion, said, “Don’t you recognise me?  I am your old College chum, Viscount STONYBROKE.”

CHAPTER IV.

“SAVED!  Saved!” shouted Sir WELFORARD, joyously—­“there is yet time!” Then, rushing into rhyme, he asked, “Will you row in the race, In PODOPHLIN’S place?”