"mighty Centaur" and possibly even the "dark-blue Scylla" with
their modern counterparts of Gyas, Sergestus, and Cloanthus,
bawling just as lustily as doubtless those coxswains of old
shouted; no one, however, struck on the rocks, as we are told the
unfortunate "Centaur" did. Still the little mahogany-built
Abercorn continued to forge ahead of her unwieldy French
competitors. The Frenchmen splashed and spurted nobly, but the
little Oxford-built boat increased her lead, her silken "Union
Jack" trailing in the water. All the muscles of the French fleet
came into play; the admiral's barge churned the water into
creaming foam; "mes braves" were incited to superhuman exertions;
in spite of it all, the Abercorn shot past the mark-boat, a winner
by a length and a half.

My father was absolutely frantic with delight. We reached the
shore long before our crew did, for they had to return to receive
the judge's formal award. He ceremoniously decorated our boat's
bows with a large laurel-wreath, and so--her stem adorned with
laurels, and the large silk "Union Jack" trailing over her stern--
the little mahogany Oxford-built boat paddled through the lines of
her French competitors. I am sorry to have to record that the
French took their defeat in a most unsportsmanlike fashion; the
little Abercorn was received all down the line with storms of
hoots and hisses. Possibly we, too, might feel annoyed if, say at
Portsmouth, in a regatta in which all the crack oarsmen of the
British Home Fleet were competing, a French four should suddenly
appear from nowhere, and walk off with the big prize of the day.
Still, the conditions of the Cannes regatta were clear; this was
an open race, open to any nationality, and to any rowing craft of
any size or build, though the result was thought a foregone