Would she be there? Inside his head he was trying to picture her. How would she be dressed? A year since they met! So long! They came to their station. Astern lay the other boats, trailed out one behind the other, pointing their noses upstream for the start. He turned to look ahead; the Christ Church crew were pulling off their scarfs. Hardcastle, who was rowing at seven, leant forward and touched him, “For God's sake, keep it long and steady.” A deep boom, muttering and ominous. The minute-gun had sounded. Someone on the bank, with a watch in his hand, commenced counting off the seconds. College-bargemen eased the eight out into the river, maneuvering with poles to get her prow at the right angle, so no time might be lost. “Are you ready?” The counting stopped. Peter brought his slide forward, bracing his feet against the stretcher. A pause, still as death. The last gun sounded. “Row, you devils. Pick it up. Six, you're late. Steady coming forward. Up, Calvary! Up!” The blades whipped the water, the river boiled past them. From the bank came the clamor of running feet and shouting, as if an asylum had been freed for a holiday. Peter saw nothing--only the red fiend of a cox, his mouth wide open, screaming shrill oaths of rebuke or encouragement. He had stopped cursing. He was giving them tens. Peter quickened his stroke. From one to ten, over and over, the counting went on. Would it never stop? He ached in every muscle. Could he never slack off? He clenched his teeth and spurted. The boat responded. “Back him up,” yelled the cox; “you're gaining.” Peter wondered whether they were; he longed to turn and see for himself. “Now, then, for all you're worth. Well rowed, Calvary. Well rowed, indeed. Stick to it.” Left to itself, his body would have crumbled. His back felt broken. There was a buzzing in his head. Something stronger than will power--a corporate spirit of honor, which the men behind him shared--kept him going. “Give her ten.” The cox was counting again. His face was as flaming as his hair with excitement; he was swinging with the oarsmen, as if the jerking of his slight body could make the boat travel faster. “Going up, Calvary. Half a length.” Ha! The cox wasn't lying now. Peter could feel the wash of the eight they were pursuing. They were creeping up slowly. From the bank his name was thundered. “Barrington. Barrington. Well rowed, Barrington. Row like hell.” By jingo, he would! He'd show 'em! There shouldn't be anything left of him. And Cherry----. Everything was growing dark. Sometimes the mist before his eyes parted; he caught glimpses of the flaring head of the cox. Sometimes he could see nothing, and heard only the endless shouting, bidding him row faster, always faster. Where were they? Had the race only just commenced? He seemed to have been struggling for hours. The dread grew up in him that he would never reach the end. He would collapse. He----. But still he went on.