is one of the pleasantest of the upriver festivals. It is not an aquatic circus, like Henley; neither is it swamped by a too convenient train service from Town, as at Maidenhead; yet it is not so remote or so obscure as to be disregarded by the metropolitan and University crews. The Ripleigh Grand Challenge Cup is a valuable prize. Last year it was won by Jesus College, Cambridge, after a memorable struggle with Thames Rowing Club, New College and London having gone down gloriously in the semi final. Altogether Ripleigh Regatta is not an event to be taken lightly, I can assure you.
Denny Cradock and Leo Bagby were not particularly interested in the fate of the Grand Challenge Cup. Their field of vision was entirely occupied by the Darnborough Vase, an unsightly receptacle of silver gilt, the prospective property for twelve months of the crew who should win the Junior-Senior Fours. The Ripleigh Four, the local hope, consisting of Denny at stroke and Leo at three, with a stout pair of brothers named Bullock at bow and two, had been training hard for nearly three weeks. Each evening they put forth in their frail craft; and with Youth at the helm, in the person of Master Bobby Devereux, lent by the Vicarage, proceeded to row courses, half courses, minutes, half-minutes, and short bursts, after the accepted canons of amateur rowing (which have not changed a particle since sliding seats were invented), until now, upon the eve of the Regatta, they found themselves as physically fit and mechanically perfect as plain living and high endeavour could make them.
Their chief difficulty had been to secure adequate coaching. A good rowing coach is a pearl of great price—and corresponding rarity. He must be able not only to point out to the oarsman the errors of his way, but to tell him what to do to correct them—a rare combination in any critic. He must also possess an authoritative manner and lungs of brass. Under these conditions an asthmatic and intermittent vicar on a bicycle can only be described as a makeshift.
Great, then, was the joy of the Ripleigh Junior Senior crew when the heavens opened, and Captain Dale Conway—soldier, athlete, and very engaging man of the world—descended therefrom and volunteered to coach them. His offer was accepted with acclamation, and the crew made marked progress from that hour. Captain Conway was perhaps not quite such a good coach as he sounded; but, as a popular preacher once observed in a confiding moment, ‘It’s the air of conviction that does it.’ At any rate, Conway succeeded in animating his charges with complete belief in their own invincibility, which is the only thing that really matters in racing—or, indeed, in most phases of the battle of life.
It was six o’clock on the evening before the Regatta, and the crew were returning from their final practice in a quiet part of the river. They had just after a short burst, and now sat humped over their oars, panting contentedly and paying respectful attention to the words of their preceptor, who reclined gracefully against a bicycle upon the towpath.
‘Very well rowed! Much better all round; but you’re still inclined to rush the first few strokes. Remember, it’s no use swinging right out for the second stroke—or the third, for that matter. Keep your slides well back, and content yourselves with getting a quick grip of the water. When the boat has really begun to run, you can swing till your noses hit the keel, if you like. Bow, keep your hands up over the stretcher, or you’ll be late on Three all the time. Three’s a big bouncing boy, I know, but that’s no reason why he should row one side of the boat along all by himself. Cox, watch Bow’s blade, and give him ginger every time he’s late. Stroke, old man, you have still got a dirty finish. The only way to cure it is by getting a harder beginning; so steady forward! Now, everybody, we’ll try one more start, and see if we can’t get her off like a stone out of a catapult. Remember, there’s only one rule in boat-racing, and that is to get the lead and stick to it. Get forward!—I want to see ten strokes in the first quarter of a minute this time—are you ready? Row!... Oh, well done, well done! Easy, Cox!’
On the opposite side of the river, moored to the bank, lay a punt containing Joan and Uncle Tony.
‘They certainly have come on a lot since he took them in hand,’ remarked Joan, gazing across the river. ‘Do you think he’s really any good as a coach, Uncle Tony?’
Sir Anthony surveyed his critical young companion quizzically.
‘That sounds as if you didn’t, Joan.’
‘You’re right. I don’t see how such a born humbug could really be much good at anything,’ replied Joan, with characteristic candour.