“Just going to get the house tubs ready,” he says; “I’ll be back in time for the mile.”

“Then is the hurdles over?”

“Rather!” exclaims Pil, in astonishment. “Why, where have you been? Of course you know who won?”

“No,” says Cusack, eagerly—“who?”

“Why, Wyndham! You never saw such a race! At the fourth hurdle from home Wyndham, Bloomfield, Game, Tipper, and Rawson were the only ones left in. Game and Tipper muffed the jump, and it was left to the other three. Bloomfield had cut out grandly. He was a yard or two ahead, then Wyndham, and the London man lying out, ten yards behind. He had been going pretty easily, but he lammed it on for the next hurdle, and pulled up close. The three went over almost even, and then Bloomfield was out of it. My eye, Cusack! you should have seen the finish after that! The London fellow fancied he was going to win in a canter, but old Wyndham stuck to him like a leech, and after the last fence ran him clean down — the finest thing you ever saw — and won by a yard. Wasn’t it prime? Ta, ta! I’m off now; see you again at the mile;” and off he goes.

The glorious victory of Willoughby at the hurdles has evidently been as much of a surprise as it has been a triumph, and everyone is full of hope now that the result of the “mile” may be equally satisfactory. In the midst of all the excitement and enthusiasm it suddenly occurs to the business-like Master Cusack that he had better secure a good position for the great race without delay, and accordingly he pilots his father out of the crush, and makes for a spot near the winning-post, where the crowd at the cords has a few gaps; and here, by a little unscrupulous shoving, he contrives to wedge himself in, with his father close behind, at about the very best spot on the course, with a full view of the last two hundred yards, and only a few feet from the finish.

It is half an hour before the race is due, and, by way of beguiling the time, Cusack shouts to one and another of his acquaintances opposite, and introduces his father to the crowd generally. The course has not yet been cleared, so there is plenty of variety as the stream of passers-by drifts along. Among the last, looking about anxiously for a place to stand and watch the big race, are Telson and Parson, arm-in-arm.

Captain Cusack hails them cheerily.

“Well, who won, my boys? who won?”

The dejected countenances of the two heroes is answer enough.

“Watkins won,” says Parson, speaking in a subdued voice. “The fact is, my shoe-lace came undone just when I was putting it on at the end.”

“And the swindle is,” puts in Telson, “that just as I was spurting for the last twenty yards Watkins took my water. I could have fouled him, you know, but I didn’t care to.”

“Fact is,” says Parson, insinuating himself under the cords, greatly to the indignation of some other small boys near, “it’s a chowse letting Watkins enter for the juniors. I’m certain he’s not under thirteen — is he, Telson?”

“Not a bit of him!” says Telson, who has also artfully squeezed himself into the front rank hard by; “besides, he’s a Limpet, and Limpets have no right to run as juniors.”

“What is a Limpet?” asks Captain Cusack of his son.

“I don’t know what else you call him,” says young Cusack, rather surlily, for he is very wroth at the way Telson has sneaked himself into a rather better position than his own; “he’s — he’s a Limpet, you know.”

“Limpets,” says a gentleman near, “are the boys in the middle school.”

“Rather a peculiar name,” suggests the captain.

“Yes; it means an inhabitant of Limbo, the Willoughby name for the middle school, because the boys there are supposed to be too old to have to fag, and too young to be allowed to have fags.”

“Ha, ha!” laughs Captain Cusack, “a capital name;” and he and the gentleman get up a conversation about their own school days which beguiles the time till the bell sounds for the great race of the day.

The starting-point is a little below where our friends are standing, and the race is just three times round the course and a few yards at the end up to the winning-post. Only four runners are starting, three of whom have already distinguished themselves in the hurdle-race. Wyndham, the school captain, is that tall, handsome fellow with the red stripe in front of his jersey, who occupies the inside “berth” on the starting-line. Next to him is Ashley; also wearing the school stripe; and between Ashley and the other schoolboy, Bloomfield, is Rawson, the dreaded Londoner, a practised athlete, whose whiskered face contrasts strangely with the smooth, youthful countenances of his competitors.

“Ashley’s to cut out the running for Willoughby this time,” says Telson, “and he’ll do it too; he’s fresh.”

So he is. At the signal to start he rushes off as if the race was a quarter of a mile instead of a mile, and the Londoner, perplexed by his tactics, starts hard also, intending to keep him in hand. Bloomfield and Wyndham, one on each side of the track, began rather more easily, and during the first lap allow themselves to drop twelve or fifteen yards behind. The Londoner quickly takes in the situation, but evidently doesn’t quite know whether to keep up to Ashley or lie up like the others. If he does the latter, the chances are the fresh man may get ahead beyond catching, and possibly win the race; and if he does the former — well, has he the wind to hold out when the other two begin to “put it on”? He thinks he has, so he keeps close up to Ashley.

The cheers, of course, all round the field are tremendous, and nowhere more exciting than where Telson and Parson are located. As the runners pass them at the end of the first lap the excitement of these youths breaks forth into terrific shouts.

“Well run, Ashley; keep it up! He’s blowing! Put it on there, Wyndham; now’s your time, Bloomfield!” And before the cries have left their lips the procession has passed, and the second lap has begun.

Towards the end of the second lap Ashley shows signs of flagging, and Bloomfield is quickening his pace.

“Huzza!” yells Parson; “Bloomfield’s going to take it up now. Jolly well-planned cut-out, eh, Telson?”

“Rather!” shrieks Telson. “Here they come! Whiskers is ahead. Now, Willoughby — well run indeed! Lam it on, Bloomfield, you’re gaining. Keep it up, Ashley. Now, Wyndham; now!”

Ashley drops gradually to the rear, and before the final lap is half over has retired from the race, covered with glory for his useful piece of work. But anxious eyes are turned to the other three. The Londoner holds his own, and Bloomfield’s rush up seems to have come to nothing. About a quarter of a mile from home an ominous silence drops upon the crowd, and for a few moments Willoughby is too disheartened to cheer. Then at last there rises a single wild cheer somewhere. What is it? The positions are still the same, and— No! Both Wyndham and Bloomfield are gaining; and as the discovery is made there goes up such a shout that the rooks in the elms start away from their nests in a panic.

Never was seen such a gallant spurt in that old meadow. Foot by foot the two Willoughby boys pull up and lessen the hateful distance which divides them from the leader. He of course sees his danger, and answers spurt for spurt. For a few yards he neither gains nor loses, then, joyful sight, he loses!

“Look at them now!” cries Telson, as they approach—“look at them both. They’re both going to win! Ah, well run, Willoughby — splendidly run; you’re going like mad — keep it up! Huzzah! level. Keep it up! Wyndham’s ahead; so’s Bloomfield. Both ahead! Well run both. Keep it up now. Hurrah!”

Amid such shouts the race ends. Wyndham first, Bloomfield a yard behind, and the Londoner, dead beat, a yard behind Bloomfield.

What wonder if the old school goes mad as it swarms over the cords and dashes towards the winner? Telson actually forgets Parson, Cusack deserts even his own father in the jubilation of the moment, each striving to get within cheering distance of the heroes of the day as they are carried shoulder-high round the ground amid the shouts and applause of the whole multitude.