The Raft
He caught sight of Peter. “Ha! Young Oxford to see his poor old uncle!
I went to Oxford once. Humph! Got married there. A bad day's work! A bad
day's work!”
They told him their plans. He wanted to ask Mr. Widow's permission--Mr.
Widow didn't approve of theatres. “Let him go hang,” Peter said.
“That's all very well.” Ocky shook his head thoughtfully. “All very
well! But he may let me go hang one fine morning. What then?”
It was quite evident that Ocky was losing his pluck. He would have
forgotten his spats and would have forgotten to twirl his mustaches, if
Glory hadn't been at hand to make him jaunty.
They popped him into a hansom and whirled him off to dinner at the
Trocadero. He sat between them, holding Glory's hand and blinking at the
glaring shops; he was more accustomed to darkness. At the entrance to
the restaurant he clutched at Peter, “I don't belong here, old chap.”
“Nonsense. Glory and I----”
All through dinner Peter told his uncle what he and Glory were going to
do for him. By-and-bye he, Peter, would have money. When he had money,
he would buy a little house in the country. Ocky should live there with
Glory, and he, Peter, between the intervals of making more money, would
run down and visit them. It seemed almost true, almost possible, in
that brilliant room where the corks flew out of bottles and the music
clashed. It almost seemed that the world was generous--that it would
give him another chance. He gazed from the eager boy, so keen to
convince him of happiness, to the flower-face of his stepdaughter, which
nodded and nodded, insisting, “Yes. Yes. Yes,” to Peter's optimism.
He asked if he might have whisky. When he got it, he tried to deceive
himself and others as to the quantity he was drinking.
“God bless my soul! I've made my whisky too strong.” Then he would
dilute it. “God bless my soul! I've made my whisky too weak.” The
alcohol whipped up his courage. Of course there were good times coming.
Peter would see to it; he never promised anything that he didn't
accomplish. Then, again he caught sight of the two young faces--but what
had Peter to do with Glory?
They stepped into another hansom. Piccadilly Circus was a blazing jewel.
Streets were gun-metal, washed with liquid gold. People were silver
flowers. Peter would do it.
The curtain went up. He was a child again. He laughed at everything. How
long was it since he had laughed? He kept nudging his companions, afraid
lest they should miss the jokes. They were just the kind of jokes he
used to make--Mr. Widow was his only audience now. You couldn't expect
a murderer to be a humorist--if he were a humorist he wouldn't be a
murderer.
He had laughed rather louder than usual. Someone turned round in the row
just in front. A girl! He looked more closely. She was staring at him.
Her companion followed her eyes, seemed surprised, and nodded to Peter
and Glory. All through the evening the strange man kept turning round
stealthily--the girl, without seeming to do so, was trying to prevent
him.
Next day, when Glory returned from Topbury to Southgate, Riska met her
with clenched hands.
“Now you've done it.”
“Done what?”
“Lost him for me. He's begun to suspect. He wants to know who was that
shabby man with you and Peter. Of course I daren't tell him. He says I
look like him. You stupid! And last night I'm sure he was going to have
proposed to me.--And Ocky isn't even your father.”
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.”
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.
Women's voices! They must be passing the barges, racing down the last of
the course. When his sight cleared, he saw them--steep banks of women's
faces, shining and nodding, and fluttering into the far distance.
Christ Church! By Jove, they must be nearly on them. He could feel the
turmoil of the beaten water. They were rowing Christ Church down.
“Give her ten.”
The cox was counting hysterically. Peter tried to pick it up. He
couldn't. He knew it. He was going to pieces. His stroke was flagging.
And then----. What was that?
“Peter. Peter. Peter.”
As the eight fled by he heard it--a girl's voice frantically urging him.
And a man's--he heard that, too. “Go it, Peter. Well rowed, old top.”
Only the Faun Man would have called him old top. She was there to see
him! His last strength returned. He pulled himself together and swung
out. The oars behind him were getting in late; he could feel the boat
dragging. It didn't matter; he'd take her to the head of the river, if
he were the only man left rowing.
Bedlam was all about him. The cox bent forward, shrieking at him, trying
to make himself heard above the racket. He caught what he said: “Only a
foot now.”
What was happening? A jerk! The boat paused and shuddered. It had
touched something. Then again it started forward. Someone was telling
him to stop. He wouldn't stop; they'd wanted him to go on before. He
was going to make sure. By his side he saw something like a broken bird,
trailing in the water. Then he saw eight men, fallen forward, spent and
panting. People were cheering. On the bank they were dancing. The cox
laid his hands on his oar to stay him. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“You silly devil! Leave off!”
It dawned on him. They'd made their bump--gone ahead of the river. And
she'd been there to watch him!
CHAPTER XXXVIII--A NIGHT OF IT
The college and its guests were assembled. Peter and his eight, with
members of the crews they had defeated, were seated at the high table.
The bump-supper was in progress. Scarcely anyone was absolutely sober.
For the first time in history Calvary had gone up seven places and had
finished head of the river.
Stoop-shouldered dons, men who held themselves aloof with a scholar's
shyness, broke their rule to-night and hobnobbed with undergraduates.
The dim old college hall was-uproarious with strong laughter and bass