“Ten yards,” Louise promptly replied. “Measure off ten yards, Keble. Anybody else?”
“Come, Girlie,” said Mrs. Windrom. “Any handicap for old age, Louise?”
“Fifteen yards for any one over thirty-five. Come on Mr. Leamington. Beat Mr. Dare. He wins everything I go in for . . . Grandfather, you be starter,—you’re to say one, two, three, go. Miriam dear, you can’t be in it, for you have to show Grandmother the easy path up. I showed her down, but one of the many delicious things she told me on the way was that she forgets things and has to have her elbow nudged.” Louise shot a bright glance at Lady Eveley.
“Keble, when you’ve marked off the fifteen, sprint on up the hill and mark a line on the gravel so we won’t go plunging on the bricks and kill ourselves . . . Oh!”
She stopped, and every one, toeing the line, looked around. Her nervous high spirits were infectious. Even Girlie was excited. Lord Eveley was holding up his hand in sporting earnest. His wife, under Miriam’s wing, beamed.
“I’m trying to think what the prizes will be. Wouldn’t be a race without prizes. Any suggestions, Mr. Cutty?”
“Might have forfeits for the first prize, and first go at the billiard table for another.”
“Bright head-work, Mr. Cutty. Prizes as follows: the winner must choose between making a speech at dinner or telling a ghost story before bedtime. The loser gets his choice between first go at the billiard table, first choice of horses to-morrow, or ordering his favorite dish for breakfast,—can’t say fairer than that. But if anybody tries to lose, God help him! . . . All set, Grandfather!”
The servants who were arranging the dinner-table thought the party had gone mad when it came reeling up the slippery grass hill in a hilarious, panting pell-mell led at first by Mrs. Windrom, who fell back in favor of Alice Eveley, who in turn was superseded by others. Towards the end Dare and Mr. Cutty, closely followed by Louise, were leading, then Dare stumbled and Mr. Cutty toppled into Keble’s arms, the winner. Louise was weak with laughter at the sight of Mr. Windrom brandishing his fishing rod and shouting instructions over his shoulder to his faltering helpmeet. Girlie, her skirts held high, was abreast of Mr. Tulk-Leamington, whose gallantry interfered with his progress. Alice was far down the line but doing as well as possible under the disadvantages of high heels and foulard folds. In the end they all reached the line but Mrs. Windrom, who had collapsed on the turf, facing a noisily breathing throng.
“I’ll have that big trout for breakfast, Louise,” she gasped. “The one Keble caught. And no one can say I didn’t try to win!”