“Poor fellow, fought bravely, the fault’s not in him,
’Tis cursed ill-luck!” For he saw by his face,
Scarred and cut, and white lips, he was out of the race,
And carried him off to the shade of the tent
And came back to criticise us as we went.
So we were left treadling, Wheeler and I,
To spin for the prizes—no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above shed its pitiless shine,
Down my face rolled the sweat and stung me like brine;
Then loudly the judge, coming near as we passed,