CHAPTER XXI
1
Christopher Sorrell came up from the river with two other men in 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 boathouse 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 heavy-weight. He had guts and sty
