“Why, what's this?” inquires Liza, coming up at the moment, with mischief in her eyes, and bantering her sweetheart with roguish jeers. “You going to run! Why, you are only a bit of a boy, you know. How can you expect to win?”
“Just you wait and see, little lass,” says Robbie, with undisturbed good humor.
“You'll slidder all the way down the fell, sure enough,” saves Liza.
“All right; just you get a cabbish-skrunt poultice ready for my broken shins,” says Robbie.
“I would scarce venture if I were you,” continues Liza, to the vast amusement of the bystanders. “Wait till you're a man, Robbie.”
The competitors—there are six of them—are now stationed; the signal is given, and away they go.
The fell is High Seat, and it is steep and rugged. The first to round the “man” at the summit and reach the meadow again wins the prize.
Over stones, across streams, tearing through thickets, through belts of trees—look how they go! Now they are lost to the sight of the spectators below; now they are seen, and now they are hidden; now three of the six emerge near the top.
The excitement in the field is at full pitch. Liza is beside herself with anxiety.
“It's Robbie—no, yes—no—egg him on, do; te-lick; te-smack.”