“And are you running in any of the races, my men?” says Captain Cusack, kindly.
He couldn’t have hit on a happier topic. The two are at their ease at once.
“Yes, sir, the junior hundred yards. I say, Cusack, your gov—your father’s just in time for the final heat. In the first I had a dead heat with Watkins, you know,” continues he, addressing the captain. “Watkins was scratch, and I had five yards, and the ruck got ten. It was a beastly shame giving Filbert ten, though—wasn’t it, Telson?—after his running second to me in the March gallops; they ought to have stuck him where I was. But I ran him down all the same, and dead-heated it with Watkins, and Telson here was a good second in his heat.”
“I was sure of a first, but that young ass Wace fouled me,” puts in Telson.
“And now it’s dead-even which of us two wins. We both get five yards on Watkins, and he’ll be pumped with the long jump, and none of the others are hot men, so it’s pretty well between us two, isn’t it, Telson?”
“Rather, and I think I back you to do it, Parson, old man,” rejoins the generous Telson.
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Parson, dubiously; “you’re a better man on the finish, I fancy.”
“All depends on how I take off. Gully’s such a boshy starter, you know; always puts me out. Why can’t they let Parrett do it?”
And off they rattle, forgetting all about Cusack and his gallant father, and evidently convinced in their own minds that the flags and the carriages and the rosettes and all the festivities are solely in honour of the final heat of the junior hundred yards, in which they two are to take part.
Captain Cusack, with a smile on his face, watches them trot off, and asks his son, “Who are those two nice young fellows?”