As he came in sight of the Catherine Wheel, a distant cheering commenced. Feet moved faster. Men caught at women's arms, and women caught up their dresses; the army of pleasure-seekers commenced to run. Because Peter was by himself he forged ahead and found a place on the bridge where people stood yelling and jammed, shoulder to shoulder. At first he could make out hardly anything, because of the sea of hats and backs in front of him. Then the crowd swayed; he took advantage of it and found himself leaning over the crumbling stone balustrade, gazing down on one of the most gallant sights in England. Through a steep bank of posies, made up of river gardens, house-boats and human faces, ran a silver thread. Approaching, with what seemed incredible slowness, were two specks about the size of matches. As the sun caught them, one saw the flash of blades, whipping the water with the regularity of clockwork. Stealthily, with infinite labor, one stole ahead. The garden of faces on either side of the silver thread trembled; a roar went up which gathered volume as it drew from out the distance. Peter pressed his lips against a man's ear--a complete stranger--and shouted, “What is it?” The man stared at him despisingly, “The Diamond Sculls. Roy Hardcastle again the Australian.” He turned away and paid Peter no more attention. Peter, though not much wiser, at once became a partisan and screamed the one name he knew, “Hardcastle! Hardcastle! Hardcastle!” till his throat felt as if it had burst. And now they were well in sight--two men with bent backs and arms that worked like levers, each seated in a machine as narrow as a needle, with long wooden legs which stuck out on either side, striding the water and keeping the balance. They looked like human egg-beaters gone mad. The river rose to its feet; the winning-post was nearing. The channel of free water seemed to narrow as skiffs, gigs, punts, dingeys and every kind of craft pressed closer to the booms which marked the course. Something happened. Both men drooped inertly forward over trailing sculls. It was dramatic, this immediate transition from frantic energy to listless collapse. Hats were tossed up. Launches shrieked and whistled. Everyone tried to make more noise than his neighbor, Peter with the rest. “Well rowed. Well rowed, sir. Well rowed.” When the clamor had died down he turned to where the man had been standing. “Who won?” And then, “Oh, I beg your pardon.” He was gazing into the amused face of a girl with gray eyes and brown-black hair, that swept like a cloud across a Clear white forehead. “Who won! Roy Hardcastle, of course. England's not beaten yet.” He wasn't thinking of England's honor; the race--it had never happened. He was looking at her mouth. They called her Cherry, because her lips were red.