CHRISTOPHER SORRELL came up from the river with two other men in dark-blue blazers. The 3rd May boat had been rowing a course; the crew had done so fast a time that their coach had shown an unexpected enthusiasm, and had blessed them from the towing-path.
"Well rowed, you men."
His smirk over the stop-watch had been inspired by the discovery that his crew—the third crew—had rowed over in three seconds less than the second crew. At the First Trinity boat-house he had gathered his men together and had allowed this piece of news to escape.
"Damned well rowed—all of you."
He had smiled particularly at Kit, the No. 5, who was standing with his oar over his shoulder, and his shorts well daubed with grease from his slide. Sorrell was the coach's pet heavyweight. He had guts and style. The coach—great man that he was, had let it be known in high quarters that Sorrell was one of the best of the "freshers," and ought to have a chance in the Trials.
The three large and healthy young creatures turned into Jesus Lane. Kit's digs overlooked Jesus College, but the two second-year men who were with him kept in Nevil's Court.
"Coming round after 'hall'?"
Kit diverged towards the houses.
"No,—I'm swatting."
"Good lord,—what for?"
"Because I like it. Just that."
His still radiant smile flew back at them as he crossed the road, and his seniors accepted it. Sorrell was a good lad. His seriousness was without offence. He could row himself out with the same seriousness with which he read, and
