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Moreover, the college was a large one, and some
of "the sets" very exclusive: young Hardie was Doge of a studious clique;
and careful to make it understood that he was a reading man who boated
and cricketed, to avoid the fatigue of lounging; not a boatman or
cricketer who strayed into Aristotle in the intervals of Perspiration.
His public running since he left Harrow was as follows: the prize poem in
his fourth term; the sculls in his sixth; the Ireland scholarship in his
eighth (he pulled second for it the year before); Stroke of the Exeter in
his tenth; and reckoned sure of a first class to consummate his twofold
career.
To this young Apollo, crowned with variegated laurel, Edward looked up
from a distance. The brilliant creature never bestowed a word on him by
land; and by water only such observations as the following: "Time, Six!"
"Well pulled, Six!" "Very well pulled, Six!" Except, by-the-bye, one
race; when he swore at him like a trooper for not being quicker at
starting. The excitement of nearly being bumped by Brasenose in the first
hundred yards was an excuse.


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