The eyes of the coach never left the young man's face. But he said
nothing while Deacon took his fill of enjoyment of the jovial scene,
apparently forgetting the sentence which he had broken in the middle.
But that evening something of the coach's meaning came to Deacon as
he sat on a rustic bench watching the colours fade from one of those
sunset skies which have ever in the hearts of rowing men who have
ever spent a hallowed June on the heights of that broad placid stream.
The Baliol graduates had lost their race against the gentlemen of
Shelburne, having rowed just a bit worse than their rivals. And now
the two crews were celebrating their revival of the ways of youth
with a dinner provided by the defeated eight. Their laughter and
their songs went out through the twilight and were lost in the
recesses of the river. One song with a haunting melody caught
Deacon's attention; he listened to get the words.
Then raise the rosy goblet high,
The senior's chalice and belie
The tongues that trouble and defile,
For we have yet a little while
To linger, you and youth and I,
In college days.
A group of oarsmen down on the lawn caught up the song and sent it
winging through the twilight, soberly, impressively, with
ever-surging harmony.
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