Stacey’s rose-coloured bath-gown was conspicuous, fluttering here and there; he got a bottle of alcohol from the trainer and was presently seen kneeling on the track, vigorously rubbing down Jim’s legs. He mounted him carefully, and scrutinized every part of his little safety bicycle, with the most zealous care. The starter gave Jim the inside of the track, which was an advantage loudly contested by Ricos.
“No use kicking,” Stacey remarked. “You’ve had one medal for cycling, and Jim is the youngest chap entered. I should like to know now just when you passed your fourteenth birthday.”
Ricos was silent and sullenly took his place. Jim turned and waved his hand to his sister. Stacey was holding his bicycle, ready to push it off at the signal. How jaunty and gay he looked in his dark blue jersey, with the silver C on his breast, and with the wind blowing his blonde hair from his eager face.
“He’s a jolly little chap,” Mr. Van Silver remarked admiringly; and Milly murmured, “I think he’s perfectly sweet.”
Adelaide said nothing, but the tears came to her eyes. I think that just for that moment she was perfectly happy. Her mood was contagious. The glamour of spring was in the hazy atmosphere. The plum trees were blossoming white out beyond the track, and the blue of bursting buds and the tender green of the earliest leafage spread itself in a shimmering haze over all the sweet spring landscape. It was a good world, after all.
At the report of the starter’s pistol, all of the boys were off in line, but they had hardly made half a lap when two, Jim and Ricos, shot from the rank and sped on in advance of the others.
“’Rah! ’Rah! for the cadets!” shouted Buttertub.
“’Rah! for Armstrong!” yelled the Woodpecker.
“He’s second!” shouted Buttertub.
“He’s first!” shrieked the Woodpecker, “and gaining every instant. ’Rah! ’Rah! ’Rah!”