The punctilious Hughie was looking about for a friendly hedge or other protection behind which he might decorously slip off the white flannel trousers which during the afternoon had been veiling the extreme brevity of his rowing-shorts, when he was tapped on the shoulder. He turned and found himself faced by a stout clean-shaven man, with eyes that twinkled cheerfully behind round spectacles. He looked like what he was, a country parson of the best type, burly, humorous, and shrewd, with unmistakable traces of the schoolmaster about him. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said, with a rather old-fashioned bow, "but are you Mr. Marrable?" Hughie admitted the fact. "Well, I just want to say that I hope you are going Head to-night. You are to row stroke yourself, I hear." "Yes." "Quite right, quite right! It's a desperate thing to change your crew about between races, but it's our only chance. You could never have caught them with the man you had last night. He's plucky, but he can't pick a crew up and take them with him. Have you been out in the new order?" "Yes. We had a short spin a couple of hours ago." "Satisfactory?" "Yes, very fair." "That's excellent. Now we shall see a race!" The speaker turned and walked beside Hughie in the direction of the Railway Bridge. Hughie wondered who he could be. "I suppose you are an old member of the College, sir," he said. "Yes. Haven't been able to come up for fifteen years, though." "In the crew, perhaps?" continued Hughie, observing his companion's mighty chest--it had slipped down a little in fifteen years--and shoulders. "Yes,"--rather diffidently. "I thought so. About what year?" The stranger told him. Hughie grew interested. "You must have been in D'Arcy's crew," he said,--"the great D'Arcy. My father knew him well. _Were_ you?" "Er--yes." "My word!" Hughie's eyes blazed at the mention of the name, which, uttered anywhere along the waterside between Putney Bridge and Henley, still rouses young oarsmen to respectful dreams of distant emulation and middle-aged coaches to floods of unreliable reminiscence. "He must have been a wonder in his time. Did you know him well? What sort of chap was he?" "Well--you see--I _am_ D'Arcy," replied the stranger apologetically. After that he gave Hughie advice about the coming race. "I have watched the All Saints crew for three nights now," he said. "They are a fine lot, and beautifully together; but it is my opinion that they can't last." "They're a bit too sure of themselves," said Hughie. "Too many Blues in the boat." "How many?" "Four. Seven, Six, Five, and Bow." "Good! They are probably labouring under the delusion that a boat with four Blues in it is four times as good as a boat with one Blue in it. Consequently they haven't trained very hard, especially those two fat men in the middle of the boat. What about their Stroke?" "Pretty enough, but a rotter when it comes to the pinch."