Of all these sufferers perhaps Cox is most to be pitied. They all have to eat what they're told, no doubt, yards and yards of beefsteak, and so on. In the old days rowing men had to drink beer at breakfast; I can't think of anything worse, except, perhaps, stout. But Cox doesn't eat anything at all. He has to get thinner and thinner. And if there is one thing worse, than eating beefsteak at breakfast it must be watching eight rowing men eating beefsteak at breakfast and not eating anything yourself. Yes, beyond question Cox is the real hero. I watch him dwindling, day by day, from nine stone to eight stone, from eight stone to seven stone twelve, and my heart goes out to the little fellow. And what a job it is! If anything goes wrong, Cox did it. He kept too far out or he kept too far in, or too much in the middle. But who ever heard of Cox doing a brilliant piece of steering, or saving the situation, or even rising to the occasion? His highest ambition is for _The Times_ to say that he did his work "adequately"--like the _Second Murderer_ in SHAKSPEARE. And at the finish he can't even pretend that he's tired, like the other men; even if there was any spectacular way of showing that he was half-frozen he couldn't do it, because he alone is responsible if one of the steamers runs over them and they are all drowned. We ought to take off our hats to Cox; though, of course, if we did, Stroke would think it was intended for him. But indeed I take off my hat to all of them; not because of the race, which, as I say, is a piece of hypocrisy, being rowed with the tide, but because of the terrible preparation for the race. I wonder if it is worth it. It is true that they have lady adorers on the towing-path at Putney, and it is even rumoured that they receive anonymous presents of chocolates. But presumably they are not allowed to eat them, so that these can do little to alleviate their sufferings. It is true also that for ever after (if their wives allow it) they can hang an enormous oar on the wall and contemplate it after dinner. But, after all, I can do that too, if I like; for I too have rowed over the course. And _I_ shall have a free view of the race. But none of them will see it at all. They will all be looking at the back of the man in front, except Stroke, whose eye will be riveted on the second button of Cox's blazer. What a life! A.P.H. * * * * * [Illustration: _Shortsighted and quick-tempered Master of Hounds._ "HI! WHAT D'YE MEAN BY HEADING MY HOUNDS WITH THAT INFERNAL CAR? HOW THE DEUCE CAN YOU HUNT IN A THING LIKE THAT, SIR?"] * * * * * "To Let, permanent, Furnished Sitting-Boots (size 6); 20s."--_Local Paper_. No, thanks; we already have a pair that are no good for walking. * * * * *