A Private Affair
Mr. Pollen—unlike Henry Kingsley, who I rather think won the Diamond Sculls—is a dry-bob. He was allowed a racing start in his skiff; but, in addition to a strongish headwind, he had to contend with a number of hazards in the shape of un- predictable sailing dinghies and temperamental swans, and he did well to complete the aquatic part of the test in seven. minutes. Splashing ashore, he jogged off—now favoured by the wind—along the bank, got back to the start with three minutes in hand, and a moment later was returning hell for leather on a useful mare called Garth Royal who distinguished herself at Badminton. He finished, looking remarkably fresh, in fourteen minutes dead. What I particularly liked about this sporting interlude was the absence of ballyhoo, the firm refusal to allow a wager between gentlemen to be exploited as a stunt. " I don't suppose there's anything we can do about it, sir," one of the stewards said to the Dean just before the start, " but that chap looks to me remarkably like a reporter." One really might almost have been in Bermuda.
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