Ocky came out--came out twirling his mustaches. He had caught the contagion of excitement. He felt himself to be more than a spectator. He wanted to talk in a loud voice to Mr. Grace, so that bystanders might overhear and know that he was an important person--young Barrington's uncle. Good heavens, half London had left its work to see just Peter, stroking the Oxford boat against Cambridge. During the next two hours while they waited, they swopped Peterish stories. “And 'e sez ter me, 'Mr. Grice,' 'e sez, 'you're my prickcaution. I've got somethink the matter with me; 'magination they calls it. I wants you to promise me ter taik care of 'er,' 'e sez. And I, willin' ter h'oblige 'im, I sez--.” Mr. Grace sprang up. “'Ulloa! Wot's this? Strike me blind, if they ain't comin'!” The box-seat wasn't high enough. They scrambled on to the roof. The crowd scrambled after them; the roof was thronged, without an inch to spare. Cat's Meat straightened his forelegs, trying to see above the people's heads. “By gosh, they're leading!” “No such luck. They're level.” Eight men, crouched in a wooden groove as narrow as a pencil, with a ninth in the stern to guide it! The pencil looked so narrow that it was a wonder that it floated. The eight men moved as if by clock-work. Eight more followed, a quarter of a length behind. Their colors were the dark blue of Mr. Grace's cab. The light blues of Cambridge were ahead. “Oxford! Oxford! Oxford!” Mr. Grace thumped Ocky in the ribs and bellowed, “There's Peter. See 'im?” As though Peter had heard, he raised the stroke from thirty-four to thirty-six, calling on his men for a spurt. They were creeping up--lifting their boat through the water in a splendid effort. Men swore beneath their breath; they tiptoed and clawed at one another, utterly selfish and careless in their wild desire to gain a clearer view of those distant streaks of energy, which bent forward and swung back mechanically in that gray ribbon of beaten water. They were shooting under the bridge now, police-boats and launches spluttering, hooting and following. The crowd swayed, broke and ran. Men leapt down from lamp-posts and points of vantage. Something happened. Mr. Grace was pushed from behind--pushed off the roof of his own cab. He picked himself up indignantly from the pavement and tried to clamber back. It mightn't have been his cab--it was territory invaded and held by intruders. “'Ere you! Git orf of it.” He laid about him with his whip and clutched at coattails. Someone hit him on the mouth. He hit back. A policeman came up. No time for explaining. He was angry enough to fight the whole world. What was Peter doing? “Leggo o' me. It's me own keb. A free country, indeed! 'Ere you, come orf of it.” He battled his way to the box. For one moment he saw two disappearing specks, and then----. A crack! A man was waist-deep in woodwork. The invaders jumped down to save themselves. The policeman hopped into the cab and levered the legs back.