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. That is the secret of it all. But
I suppose they each of them hate the coach, and that keeps them
together.

Of all these sufferers perhaps Cox is most to be pitied. They all have
to eat what they're told, no doubt, yards and yards of beefsteak, and
so on. In the old days rowing men had to drink beer at breakfast; I
can't think of anything worse, except, perhaps, stout. But Cox doesn't
eat anything at all. He has to get thinner and thinner. And if there
is one thing worse, than eating beefsteak at breakfast it must be
watching eight rowing men eating beefsteak at breakfast and not eating
anything yourself.

Yes, beyond question Cox is the real hero. I watch him dwindling,
day by day, from nine stone to eight stone, from eight stone to seven
stone twelve, and my heart goes out to the little fellow. And what a
job it is! If anything goes wrong, Cox did it. He kept too far out or
he kept too far in, or too much in the middle. But who ever heard of
Cox doing a brilliant piece of steering, or saving the situation, or
even rising to the occasion? His highest ambition is for _The Times_
to say that he did his work "adequately"--like the _Second Murderer_
in SHAKSPEARE.