" I listen painfully, hoping against hope that at least one of
the crew may be left out of the catalogue, that Stroke at least may be
rowing properly. But no, Stroke is not forgotten, and even Cox doesn't
always give complete satisfaction.
Sometimes I feel that I ought to row out in my little boat and offer
to tow the incompetents back to Putney. Yet they seem somehow to
travel very easily and well. But, however harmoniously they swing past
"The Doves" or quicken to thirty-five at Chiswick Eyot, I know that in
their hearts they are hating each other. Goodness, how they must hate
each other! For ten weeks they have been rowing together in the same
boring boat, behind the same boring back. I read with grim interest
about the periodical shiftings of the crew, how Stroke has moved to
the Bow thwart, and Bow has replaced Number Three, and Number Three
has shifted to the Stroke position. They may pretend that all this is
a scientific matter of adjustment, of balance and weight and so forth.
I know better. I know that Stroke is fed up with the face of Cox, and
that the mole on Number Two's neck has got thoroughly on Bow's nerves,
and that if Number Three has to sit any longer behind Number Four's
expanse of back he will go mad.
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