The men toed a chalk line on the grass, and jumped from it successively. The line never lacked for the boots of some ambitious contestant ready to make his attempt; and as Lance reached the spot with his companion, the stalwart form of Dennis De Vine was discovered there, gathering itself together for a saltatory effort. He had set his heart on winning the neckerchief for Adela; but, with the eyes of the spectators upon him, he was conscious of being in an absurd position, and his greatest difficulty seemed to be to suppress a smile that was broadening on his lips. Twice or thrice he seemed on the point of jumping, but each time he paused to give way to a bashful guffaw and stamp his bouts on the ground with humorous emphasis. Finally he nerved himself, and, readjusting the fragile burdens in either fist, made his spring. For an instant the sunlight showed brightly on his ruddy cheeks and red hair as he flew from the line, rising a few inches from the sod. Then he landed suddenly, several feet away, slipped, and went down, with the yolks gushing in yellow spurts from the shells. A roar of laughter rose from the crowd.
Dennis looked a little angry, but hastened to rub off the egg-yolks on the grass, and, producing another five cents, took his stand at the line again. He waited for one or two companions in misfortune to repeat his failure; but there was no awkward merriment about him, this time. He was too intent upon success. Holding the new eggs firmly and lightly, swinging his arms and then keeping them well up as he started, he made his second energetic venture; and when his feet struck the turf he raised the two small white objects triumphantly. They were unbroken.
He was rewarded with plaudits and shouts of approbation—the length of the jump was respectable—and, with a reluctant flourish of the kerchief, the proprietor of the game awarded him that prize.
"Good for you, Dennie!" cried a deep and rather musical voice near Lance.
He turned, and recognised Sylv. "Why, how are you?" he asked, cordially.
He would have stepped toward him and shaken hands, but Sylv merely took off his hat, bowing, and gave no sign of expecting further advances. The truth was, he was afraid of Jessie, whose notions of caste made her think it proper to keep these folk at a distance in public places.
"Come," she said to her lover; "let us be going back to the racecourse."
"I wanted to speak a moment with De Vine," Lance objected, mildly. "I intend to make him part of my schemes; don't you see?"
"Oh, well, not here; not now," said Jessie. "He's not your friend, if he is to be your workman. And this is hardly the place."
"Very well," he assented, though not wholly pleased.