The athletic contests on the primitive little race-track proved the greatest attraction of all. There were bicycle races after the foot-racing and hammer-throwing and high jumping. Jot longed to vault into his own wheel and whirl round the track dizzily, like the rest of them. He and Kent stood together close to the turning-point. They had somehow drifted away from Old Tilly.
A new race began, and up at the starting-place there seemed to be a good deal of hilarity. The hearty laughs were tantalizing.
"What is it? Why don't they come on and give us fellows a chance to laugh, too?" exclaimed Jot, impatiently.
Kent was peering sharply between his hands. He suddenly began to laugh.
"It's a slow race!" he cried. "They're trying to see who can get behind! Come on up further where we can see. It'll be great!"
"Come along, then—hurry!" shouted Jot.
"It's a free-for-all. Anybody can compete," somebody was saying as they passed. "But they've got to be slower than Old Tilly!"
"Can't do it!" whispered Jot. "Old Tilly can sit still on his bike."
"I hope he'll see the race," Kent panted. "It would be mean if he missed. Here's a good place—there they come. Look at 'em crawling along like snails! There's one chap clear behind. Yes, sir, he's standing still!"
Jot gave one look and uttered a shout: