e mingled now, and no mistake; and the shouts come all
in a heap over the water. "Now, St. Ambrose, six strokes more." "Now,
Exeter, you're gaining; pick her up." "Mind the Gut, Exeter." "Bravo,
St. Ambrose!" The water rushes by, still eddying from the strokes of
the boat ahead. Tom fancies now he can hear their oars and the workings
of their rudder, and the voice of their coxswain. In another moment both
boats are in the Gut, and a perfect storm of shouts reaches them from
the crowd, as it rushes madly off to the left to the footbridge, amidst
which "Oh, well steered, well steered, St. Ambrose!" is the prevailing
cry. Then Miller, motionless as a statue till now, lifts his right hand
and whirls the tassel round his head. "Give it her now, boys; six
strokes and we're into them." Old Jervis lays down that great broad back
and lashes his oar through the water with the might of a giant, the crew
catch him up in another stroke, the tight new boat answers to the spurt,
and Tom feels a little shock behind him, and then a grating sound, as
Miller shouts, "Unship oars, Bow and Three!" and the nose of the St.
Ambrose boat glides quietly up the side of the Exeter till it touches
their stroke oar.

"Take care where you're coming to." It is the coxswain of the bumped
boat who speaks.

Tom finds himself within a foot or two of him when he looks round; and,
being utterly unable to contain his joy, and yet unwilling to exhibit
it before the eyes of a gallant rival, turns away towards the shore, and
begins telegraphing to Hardy.

"Now, then, what are you at there in the bows? Cast her off, quick.
Come, look alive! Push across at once out of the way of the other
boats."

"I congratulate you, Jervis," says the Exeter stroke, as the St. Ambrose
boat shoots past him. "Do it again next race and I shan't care."

Thomas Hughes: "Tom Brown at Oxford."

HUNTING SONG

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily mingle they,
'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,