"Wouldn't take off his hat to the flag? Who wouldn't?"

"That nasty little German!" cried Miss Wemyss.

We were all out of the boats by that time except the unhappy object of our wrath, whose countenance by this time was working into patterns like a kaleidoscope.

"Mr. Jimmie," he said, coming to the end of the boat with every intention of stepping out, "I apologise to you. I am very sorry."

"Get back in that boat!" thundered Jimmie.

"But, sir! Your concert to-night! I play for you!"

"You go to the devil," said Jimmie. "You'll not put your foot on board this boat again. Off you go! Take him down to Henley!" he ordered the boatman.

"Very well! Very well!" said the German, "I go, but I do not take my hat off to your flag."

"Ah! Don't you?" cried the Princeton man, making a grab for the German's sailor hat with his long arm, just as the boat shot away. He stooped and took it up full of Thames water and flung it thus loaded squarely in the little wretch's face, while the man at the oars dexterously tossed it overboard, where it floated bottom upwards in the river, and the boat shot out toward Henley with the bareheaded and most excited specimen of the human race it was ever our lot to behold.

Then Jimmie introduced his friends. Bee has just looked over this narrative of the pleasantest week we ever spent in England and she says:

"You haven't said a word about the races."

"So I haven't."

But they were there.

CHAPTER II