"O blessed Hermes, Creon will not forget thy help."
As he turned away the judge gave him a palm in sign of victory. The boy walked back down the course with the palm waving over his shoulder. His body was glistening, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes were burning with joy. He was looking up at the crowd, hoping to see his father and brother. And at every step men reached out a hand to him or called to him, until at last Menon's own loving arms pulled him up upon the benches. Then there was such a noise that no one heard any one else, but everybody knew that everybody was happy. Men pushed their heads over other men's shoulders, and boys peeped between their fathers' legs to see the Olympic winner. And in that circle of faces Menon stood with his arms about Creon, laughing and crying. And Charmides clung to his brother's hand. But at last Creon whispered to his father:
"I must go and make ready. I am entered for the pentathlon, also."
Menon cried out in wonder.
"I kept that news for a surprise," laughed Creon. "Good-by, little one," he said to Charmides, and pushed through the crowd.
Menon sat down trembling. If his boy should win in the pentathlon also! That would be too great glory. It could not happen. He began to mutter a hundred prayers. Another race was called—the double race, twice around the course. But Menon did not stand to see it. He could think of nothing but his glorious son. After the race was another great shout. Some other boy was carrying a palm. Some other father was proud. Then followed wrestling, bout after bout, and cheering from the crowd. But Menon cared little for it all.
It was now near noon. The sun shone down scorchingly. A wind whirled dust up from the race course into people's faces.
"My throat needs wetting," cried a man.
He pulled off a little vase of wine that hung from his girdle and passed it to Menon, saying:
"I should be proud if the father of the victor would drink from my bottle."