The Lucky Number/A Sporting College

was one of the minor colleges of Cambridge. Its name was unfamiliar to the Man in the Street, and the modest nature of its academic achievements was only equalled by the lowly position of its boat on the river. But its members atoned for the collective shortcomings of their foundation by an individual brilliancy which made the name of St. Asaph's esteemed throughout the University. They were not a large college, they said, but they were a sporting one. They might not be clever, but thank goodness they were not good!

Consequently, when I one day received a deputation from St. Asaph's, requesting that I would be good enough to coach their College Boat during the ensuing term, I felt that no light compliment had been paid me. It was the first occasion on which I had been asked to coach the crew of another college, and I accepted the charge with an enthusiasm not to be damped by the knowledge that the St. Asaph's boat was the lowest on the river.

I commenced my duties forthwith, and, mounted upon the tallest horse I have ever seen (provided by the St. Asaph's Boat Club), took my crew out that very day. My steed, I soon discovered, laboured under the disadvantage of possessing only one eye, an infirmity which rendered him liable to fall into the river whenever I rode him too near the edge of the towpath. On the other hand, he enjoyed the consolation, denied to his rider, of being unable to see the St. Asaph's crew. They were the worst collection of oarsmen that I had ever set eyes on, and I told them so, at frequent intervals and in different ways, throughout the afternoon. I was particularly direct in my references to the gentleman who was rowing Five. He seemed older than his colleagues, possessed a bald head, and was evidently one having authority. He was not the captain, for that highly inefficient officer was rowing Stroke: but this did not prevent him from shouting out directions as to time, length, and swing to sundry members of the crew whenever it occurred to him to do so, which was usually at the moment which I had selected for doing the same thing. He seemed to resent my comments on his own style, and answered back more than once—an unpardonable sin in any rowing man.

At the end of the day's work I told my crew that they were showing improvement already (which was not true), and that all they wanted was plenty of hard work and practice (which was approximately correct). Before I left the boathouse the apologetic captain led me aside, and asked me as a personal favour to be more polite to Five.

“Why?” I asked. “He is easily the worst man in the crew.”

“Yes, I know, but he was captain three years ago, and he likes to have his own way.”

“I wonder he does n’t stroke the boat,” I remarked acidly.

“He would,” said the captain simply, “only he weighs nearly fifteen stone, so he rows Five. He says he can manage the crew quite as well from there. He sets the stroke, and I just have to look round over my shoulder every now and then, to see if I’m keeping time with him.”

In grateful consideration of the fact that I had now acquired a story which would bear repetition in rowing circles for years to come, I swallowed my smiles and answered:

“But, my dear man, this is simply idiotic. I think the best plan would be to fire him out of the boat altogether, at once. I’ll tell him, if you don't like to.”

This altruistic offer caused the captain to turn quite pale; and after a certain amount of natural hesitation he confided to me the fearful tidings that the crew as it stood represented the whole available strength of St. Asaph's College; the only possible substitute, if I “carted” Five, being one of the Dons. “And he's got gout in both legs,” added the captain.

I accepted the situation, and Five.

I may as well describe my crew in detail. Nature has framed strange fellows in her time, but it is improbable that such a unique collection of oddities will ever again be seen at once.

Bow was a chubby and diminutive youth, with a friendly smile. He was the stylist of the crew, swinging and recovering with an elegance that was pleasant to behold. Since, however, he rarely if ever put his oar into the water, contenting himself for the most part with mysterious passes over its surface with the blade, he could hardly be regarded as anything more than a neat figurehead.

Two had the longest legs and the shortest body I have ever seen. No ordinary stretcher could contain him, and he succeeded in flattening his knees only when, in excess of zeal, he pushed himself over the back of his sliding-seat. The valuable work done on these occasions by Bow in restoring his colleague to his rightful position only goes to illustrate the great truth that the meanest creatures have their uses.

Three's presence in the crew was entirely due to the fact that St. Asaph's College only possessed eight undergraduates. I need say no more.

Four was a Scholar of the college, and, as he once informed me in a burst of confidence, had taken up rowing for his stomach's sake. I trust that organ benefited by his exertions: after all, it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.

Five, as I have already mentioned, was a man of commanding presence. He was not intended by nature for an oarsman, but would have made an excellent chairman at a parish meeting. He regarded me with undisguised hostility, and received my strictures upon his performances in a purely personal spirit.

Six would have performed with considerably more comfort and credit at Two, or possibly as Cox. He occupied his place, as far as I could gather, ex officio, by virtue of his office as captain of the St. Asaph's Cricket Club. He suffered much from the handle of Five's oar, which lodged constantly in the small of his back, owing to the fact that his swing back usually coincided with Five's swing forward.

Seven, incredible as it may appear, was a very fair oar. He was not popular with the rest of the crew, who, from a cause which I could never fathom—probably the instinct which prompts the British workingman to call a man who likes to earn a regular living a “”—considered him “no sportsman.” It was chiefly owing to his unremitting efforts that the boat, overcoming the languid resistance of the Cam and the more strenuous opposition of Five, was enabled to move at all.

Stroke was handicapped from the outset by having to row with his chin glued to his left shoulder in an impossible effort to take the time from Five. He was the possessor, at the best of times, of a singularly distorted and ungainly style, and a month spent in endeavouring to stroke the boat with his eyes fixed upon a man sitting three places behind him rapidly developed him into something only witnessed as a rule after a supper of hot lobsters and toasted cheese.

Of Cox it is sufficient to say that he was a Burmese gentleman, exceedingly small, with a knowledge of the English language limited apparently to a few expletives of the most blood-curdling type, such as could only have been acquired from a sailor's parrot. These he lavished on his crew in monotonous rotation, evidently under the impression that they were rowing maxims of the utmost value. He did not know his right hand from his left, which is an awkward defect in a cox, and he always addressed me as “Mr. Coachman.”

Our daily journey to Baitsbite was distinguished from those of countless equally bad boats by a certain old-time stateliness and courtesy. No one ever arrived in time, and it was not considered good form on the part of the coach to make his crew paddle for more than about two hundred yards with out an “easy.” Also, three clear days' notice was required in the event of my desiring to send them over the full course.

The day's proceedings always ended with a sort of informal vote of thanks to Five, proposed by the captain, in tones that conveyed a mute appeal (invariably ignored) to me to second the motion, and carried with feverish acclamation by the rest of the crew. Five usually replied that he very much doubted if he could stand the company of such a set of rotters any longer; but he always turned out with unfailing regularity next afternoon, and took the chair as usual.

The boat made fluctuating progress. Sometimes it went badly, sometimes indifferently, sometimes unspeakably. More than once I found myself wondering whether, after all, a Don with gout in both legs would not be of more use than all my present crew put together. Still, a crew has to be very bad to be the worst on the Cam, and St. Asaph's were confident that the end of the races would see them several places higher on the river than before. Beyond possessing the unique advantage of occupying a position unassailable from the rear, I could see little cause for such hopes, but I mechanically repeated to them the mendacious assurances usual on these occasions, until presently I found myself sharing the enthusiasm of my crew; and when, the Saturday before the races, they rowed over to the Railway Bridge, accompanied by a whooping octogenarian on horseback, whom I first took to be Five's grandfather, but who ultimately proved to be the college tutor, in 7 min. 40 secs., it was felt that the doom of the boats in front was sealed.

Then came the races.

For the benefit of those who have never made a study of that refinement of torture known as a “bumping” race, it may be explained that at Oxford and Cambridge the college crews, owing to the narrowness of the river, race not abreast but in a long string, each boat being separated from its pursuer and pursued by an equal space. Every crew which succeeds in rowing over the course without being touched (or “bumped”) by the boat behind is said to have “kept its place,” and starts in the same position for the next day's racing. But if it contrives to touch the boat in front, it is said to have made a “bump,” and both bumper and bumped get under the bank with all speed and allow the rest of the procession to race past. Next day, bumper and bumped change places, and the victors of the day before endeavour to catch the next boat in front of them. The crew at the Head of the River, of course, have nothing to catch, and can accordingly devote their attention to keeping away from Number Two, which is usually in close attendance owing to the pressing attentions of Number Three. And so on.

The races take place on four successive evenings. It is thus possible for a crew by making a bump each evening to ascend four places. This was the mobestmodest [sic] programme which St. Asaph's had mapped out for themselves, the alternative of a corresponding descent being mercifully precluded by their geographical position on the river. Though their actual performance did not quite reach the high standard they had set themselves, it cannot be denied that they had a stirring time of it.

For this they had to thank the Burmese Cox, who in four crowded and glorious days made his unpronounceable name a household word in Cambridge. On the first evening of the races, by dexterously crossing his rudder-lines at the start, he pointed the boat's head in such a direction that the racing for that day terminated, so far as St. Asaph's were concerned, with considerable violence at a point about fifteen yards below the starting-post, the entire crew having to disembark in order to assist in the extraction of the nose of their vessel from the mass of turf in which it had embedded itself. By the time that this task had been accomplished, all the other boats were out of sight, and it was decided to walk home—a precaution which the Coxswain was discovered to have taken already.

On the next evening St. Asaph's, full of hope and vigour, once more took their places at the end of the long line of boats, determined to bump St. Bridget's this time, or perish in the attempt. Cox's rudder lines had been carefully sorted for him; but in some inexplicable manner he became hopelessly entangled with the starting-chain, the end of which the coxswain is supposed to hold in his hand until the starting-gun fires, in order to keep the boat from drifting. Consequently, when the signal was given, that last link with the land still adhered to several points of his person. Now, when it comes to a tug-of-war between a snuff-and-butter miscreant weighing seven stone and terra-firma, the result may be anticipated without much difficulty. Next moment the St. Asaph's crew, swinging out like giants to their task, were horrified to observe their pocket Palinurus, with a terrified grin frozen upon his dusky features and his objurgatory vocabulary dead within him, slide rapidly over the stern of the boat and disappear beneath the turgid waters of the Cam.

Pity and horror, however, turned to rage and indignation when the victim, on rising to the surface, paddled cheerfully to the bank, scrambled out, and started off, with an air of pleased relief, to walk home again. He was sternly ordered to return, the boat was backed into the bank, and, with the dripping Oriental once more at the helm, the St. Asaph's crew commenced a rather belated effort to overtake a boat which had already disappeared round Post Corner. They finished, however, only about a hundred yards behind St. Bridget's, who had encountered numerous obstacles, including Grassy Corner, en route.

Next day St. Asaph's made their bump. The fact in itself is so astounding that any attempt to describe it would of necessity form an anticlimax. Sufficient to say that both boats got safely off, and that St. Asaph's overlapped “Bridget” in the Plough Reach. The actual bump did not take place till some time after, as the Coxswain, in spite of prodigious mental efforts, could not remember which string to pull; but when the bow of the St. Asaph's boat ran over the blade of the St. Bridget's Stroke's oar, the enemy decided that honour was satisfied, and unanimously stopped rowing. Not so St. Asaph's. Having made his bump, the Coxswain decided to make the most of it; and the crew, the majority of whom were rowing with their mouths open and eyes shut, backed him up nobly. It was not until Bow found himself sitting amid the St. Bridget's crew, directly over number Four's rigger, and Seven, surprised by a sudden resistance to his blade, opened his eyes to discover that he was belabouring the Stroke of that unhappy band of pilgrims in the small of the back, that the men of St. Asaph's realized that they had really made a bump, and desisted from their efforts.

Now comes the tragic part of my story.

If St. Asaph's had been content to let well alone, and to row over the course on the last day of the races at a comfortable distance in front of St. Bridget's, all would have been well. But, drunk with victory, they decided to bump the next boat—I think one of lower Trinity crews—and so achieve immortality on two successive occasions.

For the last time I sent them off, with many injunctions to eschew crabs and the bank. Surprising as it may seem, they made an excellent start, and were soon in full cry up Post Reach after the Trinity crew, with St. Bridget's toiling hopelessly behind them. So fast did they travel that their followers on the bank, including myself (gingerly grasping an ancient horse pistol that I had been instructed to fire as soon as they should get within length of their opponents), began to fall behind. The boat swung out of sight into the Gut fifty yards in front of us; and to my undying regret I missed the earlier stages of the catastrophe which must have occurred almost immediately afterwards.

On rounding the corner and coming in sight of Grassy, we observed a considerable commotion on the towpath side of the bend. The centre of the disturbance of course proved to be the St. Asaph's boat, the greater part of which had in some inexplicable manner contrived to mount upon the towpath, together with its crew, who were still sitting gaping vacantly on the delirious mob around them.

The stern end of the boat was resting on the waters of the Cam, and Stroke, assisted by Five, who had left his seat for the purpose, was making a savage and successful effort to force the resisting form of the Burmese Coxswain beneath them. The reason for this drastic procedure was hurriedly explained to us by an hysterical chorus of eye-witnesses. The “Jewel of Asia,” as some one had aptly christened that submerged hero, seeing the stern of the Trinity boat dangling temptingly before him as it swung round the sharp Grassy Corner, and impulsively deciding that the time had now arrived for another bump, had abandoned his previous intention of circumnavigating Grassy himself and gone straight for the elusive tail of the retreating boat, in a brilliant but misguided attempt to cut off a corner. He had missed by not less than three yards, and had immediately afterwards piled up his vessel upon the towpath. Hence the highly justifiable efforts of Stroke and Five to terminate his miserable existence. To crown all, at this moment the St. Bridget's boat, remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, accompanied by a coloured gentleman ringing a dinner bell, and a solitary Don who trotted beside them making encouraging noises, came creaking round the corner. Their coxswain, suddenly beholding his victorious foes of yesterday lying at his mercy, with one wild shriek of joy headed his ship in our direction. Next moment the devastating prow of the St. Bridget's boat skittered gracefully over the half-submerged stern of the helpless wreck that protruded from the bank, just as Stroke and Five of the St. Asaph's crew succeeded in getting their coxswain under for the third time.

How nobody was killed, nobody knew. There were no casualties: of course coxes do not count. St. Bridget's claimed their bump, which was allowed, and St. Asaph's returned to their rightful position at the foot of the river. Fortunately they had had their Bump Supper the night before.

Eheu! That was nearly twenty-five years ago. I wonder if such things happen in University rowing to-day. I hope so.