THE morn of the race dawned clear and sparkling. Far as the eye could
reach, the banks of the river were rich with Millions, and firm enough to
bear any run upon them however heavy. But Sir WELFORARD LONGSTROKE was ill
at ease. His No. 5 had fled leaving no trace, and he had no one to fill the
vacancy. He looked the very model of an aquatic hero. His broad chest was
loosely clad in a pair of blue satin shorts, and his fair hair fell in
waving masses over his muscular back. His thoughts were bitter. The Camford
crew had started on the race some ten minutes ago, and the Oxbridge craft
still waited idly in the docks for want of a No. 5.
"Surely," Sir WELFORARD thought to himself, "PODOPHLIN might have postponed
the elopement for one day." A confused noise interrupted his meditations.
Some ten yards from him a man roughly clad, but with the immense muscular
development of the Arri Furnese Apollo, was engaged in fighting three
bargees at once. As Sir WELFORARD stepped forward, this individual struck a
terrible blow. His ponderous fist, urged by the force of a thirty-inch
biceps, crashed through the chest of his first foe, severed the head of the
second from his body, and struck the third, a tall man, full in the
midriff, propelling him through the air into the middle of the river.
"That's enough for one day," he said, as with an air of haughty melancholy
he removed his clay-pipe from his mouth. His face seemed familiar to Sir
WELFORARD. Who could he be? All doubt was removed when he advanced, grasped
Sir WELFORARD by the hand, and, in tones broken with emotion, said, "Don't
you recognise me? I am your old College chum, Viscount STONYBROKE."