I smiled and made a grimace.  “Beastly.”

He gripped my hand in his powerful fist and whispered:  “Rot! you are certain to do everything for us.  My heart is set on winning this and staggering the school.”

I smiled again.  “You’re a ripping chap, and I’m sorry if I’ve ever cheeked you.”

Sudden cheering told us that the great Erasmus four had emerged from their cabins.  They were as fine a little company of Saxon boys as ever school could show; comely, tall, and fair-skinned.  On the left side of the diving-boards they took up their pre-arranged positions:  Atwood, first; Southwell Primus, behind him; Lancelot, third (and therefore my opponent); and then Southwell Secundus.  And all four had tied on their heads the black and white polo-caps of the school.  Upton looked with satisfaction upon his house’s representatives; while Dr. Chapman, standing near, exclaimed:  “Fine young shoots of yours, Uppy.  I tell you, this is England’s best generation.  Dammit, there are three things old England has learnt to make:  ships, and poetry, and boys.”

Now, amid less resounding but still enthusiastic applause, the Bramhall four assumed positions on the right.  White stood on the diving-mat; behind him, Johnson, frowning; next myself; and lastly Cully.  We were of very varying heights, from White, whose huge proportions exaggerated the difference, to little thick-set Cully, who was the shortest of all.  And only these two wore the polo-cap.  So both fours stood before the multitude, inviting comparison:  Erasmus, a team; Bramhall, a scratch lot.

Behind me Cully observed the contrast, and, striving with courage to belie his agitation, murmured:  “Look at Erasmus.  Did you ever see such a measly lot?  If we can’t beat that crew, Ray, my boy, we must be duffers,” to emphasise which remark he tickled me under both armpits, so that, nearly jumping out of my skin, I fell forward on to Johnson, who fell forward on to White, who, having nobody to fall forward on to, fell prematurely into the water.  This extra item was loudly “encored,” and White scrambled back to his place and bowed his acknowledgments.

Salome, as starter, thereupon addressed the competitors.

“Ee, bless me, my men, I shall say ‘Are you ready?  Go!’”

His words were like a bell for silence.  Upton and Fillet eyed the swimmers narrowly.

“Are you ready?  Go!”

And then a calamity supervened.  While Atwood dived with the grace of a swallow, White, well—­White missed his dive; he leapt into the air, his great arms and legs appeared to hang limply down, and his body struck the water with a splash that set the whole surface in a turmoil.  “Moles has gone a belly-flopper,” shouted the crowd, as it wept with laughter.  “Good old Moles, ‘a huge, shapeless mass!’” I was too nervous to laugh, and wished that I had trousers on, for my limbs were trembling so noticeably that I felt everybody