The blades of the
_Nonpareil_ were knocking up water like a moorhen. Tremenjous Hosken
had fallen to groaning between the strokes, and I believe that from
the mark-boat homeward he was no better than a passenger--an
eighteen-stone passenger, mind you. The only man to keep it lively
was little Jago at bow, and Seth Ede--to do him justice--pulled a
grand race for pluck. He might have spared himself, though.
Another hundred yards settled it: the _Indefatigable Woman_ made her
overlap and went by like a snake, and the Irishman pulled in his oar
and said:
"Well, Heaven bless the leddies, anyway!"
Seth Ede turned round and swore at him vicious-like, and he fell to
rowing again: but the whole thing had become a procession. "Eyes in
the boat!" commanded Sal, pulling her crew together as they caught
sight of their rivals for the first time and, for a stroke or two,
let the time get ragged. She couldn't help a lift in her voice,
though, any more than she could help winding up with a flourish as
they drew level with Saltash town, a good hundred yards ahead, and
heard the band playing and the voices cheering. "Look out for the
quicken!"--and up went a great roar as the women behind her picked
the quicken up and rattled past the Quay and the winning-gun at forty
to the minute!
They had just strength enough left to toss oars: and then they leaned
forward with their heads between their arms, panting and gasping out,
"Well rowed, Sal!" "Oh--oh--well rowed all!" and letting the delight
run out of them in little sobs of laughter.
Pages:
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234