It was all too true; Bonaparte Triggers had done with Riska. He sent her a formal letter, breaking off everything. “My father,” he wrote, “happens to know Lawyer Wagstaff, your father's old employer. At first I wouldn't believe that you were his daughter. I wouldn't have minded, anyhow; I was in love with you. But you and your mother lied to me about it. I could never trust you after that. The moment I saw that man with your cousin and Glory I knew the truth.” So ended Riska's first attempt to plunge from the raft. She clambered back, a little damp, but with her heart intact. Glory was blamed for the catastrophe; in future she had to be more careful in meeting Ocky. Barrington, after a stormy interview with Jehane in which Peter was accused, shook his head, “Riska! Humph! Poor kiddy, I'm sorry. She's ripe fruit, Peter. Mark my words; if she isn't plucked, she'll fall to the ground.” CHAPTER XXXVII--THE RACE “Get ready. Paddle.” Peter's oar gripped the water. The seven men behind him swung out. For a second he raised his eyes from the boat, searching the faces on the barge. She wasn't there--Cherry. The Faun Man had promised to bring her up to Oxford for the last great race of Eights' Week. Perhaps she had refused to come. Perhaps the train was late. Perhaps----. On the roof of the barge he could see Kay, with Harry standing beside her. His mother and father, most manifestly proud of him, were there. Glory--yes, she was waving. But they--all of them together--they counted for so little because Cherry was absent. It was his great week. He was proving himself a man--more than a dreamer. Every night his eight had made its bump. People said that it was the stroke-oar who had done it. He so wanted her to see him. He was going to stroke Calvary to the head of the river. It was the last night; only Christ Church was in front. All along the bank to his right lay college barges, gay and animated with girls and flowers. Behind still trees of the meadows, beneath which cattle grazed, spires and domes soared dreamily against the deep horizon. The others were working as one man behind him. The eight jumped forward as though it were a live thing. How fit he felt! Punts and canoes blocked their passage. “Look ahead, sir. Look ahead.” They had to halt. From the tow-path men shouted encouragement, “Calvary--up! Up!” They rang dinner-bells, banged gongs, twirled rattles, fired pistols. It was deafening, maddening. Other eights passed them, shooting down to Iffley to the lower stations. Some were crews they had defeated on previous evenings. Then came Christ Church, broad shoulders and tanned bodies swinging. They stopped rowing, and rattled their oars in salute and challenge. The red-headed cox, glancing at the rivals, leant forward and spoke to Peter. “They're top o' their training. It'll be a long chase. We'll catch 'em by the barges.” Peter nodded and squared his mouth doggedly. “By the barges, if not earlier. Anyway, we'll catch 'em.”