"All right," answers the Captain; "Brazen-nose isn't so strong as usual. We sha'n't have much trouble there, but a tough job up above, I take it." "Brazen-nose was better steered than Exeter." "They muffed it in the Gut, eh?" said the Captain. "I thought so by the shouts." "Yes, we were pressing them a little down below, and their coxswain kept looking over his shoulder. He was in the Gut before he knew it, and had to pull his left hand hard or they would have fouled the Oxfordshire corner. That stopped their way, and in we went." "Bravo; and how well we started too." "Yes, thanks to that Hardy. It was touch and go though; I couldn't have held that rope two seconds more." "How did our fellows work; she dragged a good deal below the Gut." Miller looked somewhat serious, but even he cannot be finding fault just now. For the first step is gained, the first victory won; and, as Homer sometimes nods, so Miller relaxes the sternness of his rule. The crew, as soon as they have found their voices again, laugh and talk, and answer the congratulations of their friends, as the boat slips along close to the towing path on the Berks side, "easy all," almost keeping pace nevertheless with the lower boats, which are racing up under the willows on the Oxfordshire side. Jack, after one or two feints, makes a frantic bound into the water, and is hauled dripping into the boat by Drysdale, unchid by Miller, but to the intense disgust of Diogenes, whose pantaloons and principles are alike outraged by the proceeding. He--the Cato of the oar--scorns to relax the strictness of his code even after victory won. Neither word nor look does he cast to the exhulting St. Ambrosians on the bank; a twinkle in his eye and a subdued chuckle or two, alone betray that though an oarsman he is mortal. Already he revolves in his mind the project of an early walk under a few pea-coats, not being quite satisfied (conscientious old boy!) that he tried his stretcher enough in that final spurt, and thinking that there must be an extra pound of flesh on him somewhere or other which did the mischief. "I say, Brown," said Drysdale, "how do you feel?" "All right," said Tom; "I never felt jollier in my life." "By Jove, though, it was an awful grind; didn't you wish yourself well out of it below the Gut?" "No, nor you either." "Didn't I? I was awfully baked, my throat is like a limekiln yet. What did you think about?" "Well, about keeping time, I think," said Tom, "but I can't remember much." "I only kept on by thinking how I hated those devils in the Exeter boat, and how done up they must be, and hoping their No. 2 felt like having a fit."