When their father gave the word to return, “Come, take your places at the oars!” she smiled to see her sons, her two great boys, take off their jackets and roll up their shirt-sleeves on their bare arms.

Pierre, who was nearest to the two women, took the stroke oar, Jean the other, and they sat waiting till the skipper should say:  “Give way!” For he insisted on everything being done according to strict rule.

Simultaneously, as if by a single effort, they dipped the oars, and lying back, pulling with all their might, began a struggle to display their strength.  They had come out easily, under sail, but the breeze had died away, and the masculine pride of the two brothers was suddenly aroused by the prospect of measuring their powers.  When they went out alone with their father they plied the oars without any steering, for Roland would be busy getting the lines ready, while he kept a lookout in the boat’s course, guiding it by a sign or a word:  “Easy, Jean, and you, Pierre, put your back into it.”  Or he would say, “Now, then, number one; come, number two—­a little elbow grease.”  Then the one who had been dreaming pulled harder, the one who had got excited eased down, and the boat’s head came round.

But to-day they meant to display their biceps.  Pierre’s arms were hairy, somewhat lean but sinewy; Jean’s were round and white and rosy, and the knot of muscles moved under the skin.

At first Pierre had the advantage.  With his teeth set, his brow knit, his legs rigid, his hands clinched on the oar, he made it bend from end to end at every stroke, and the Pearl was veering landward.  Father Roland, sitting in the bows, so as to leave the stern seat to the two women, wasted his breath shouting, “Easy, number one; pull harder, number two!” Pierre pulled harder in his frenzy, and “number two” could not keep time with his wild stroke.

At last the skipper cried:  “Stop her!” The two oars were lifted simultaneously, and then by his father’s orders Jean pulled alone for a few minutes.  But from that moment he had it all his own way; he grew eager and warmed to his work, while Pierre, out of breath and exhausted by his first vigorous spurt, was lax and panting.  Four times running father Roland made them stop while the elder took breath, so as to get the boat into her right course again.  Then the doctor, humiliated and fuming, his forehead dropping with sweat, his cheeks white, stammered out: 

“I cannot think what has come over me; I have a stitch in my side.  I started very well, but it has pulled me up.”

Jean asked:  “Shall I pull alone with both oars for a time?”

“No, thanks, it will go off.”

And their mother, somewhat vexed, said: 

“Why, Pierre, what rhyme or reason is there in getting into such a state.  You are not a child.”

And he shrugged his shoulders and set to once more.

Mme. Rosemilly pretended not to see, not to understand, not to hear.  Her fair head went back with an engaging little jerk every time the boat moved forward, making the fine wayward hairs flutter about her temples.