But while we have been making this lengthy explanation, Friday has passed, and Saturday morning dawned cool and clear.
What a babble of boys' tongues there was in the dressing-room under the grand stand, and what a crush of boys, girls, fathers, mothers, and cousins on top of it!
Mr. Lancewood, the young bachelor, who was as jolly as he was generous, bustled about from performers to public, boys to girls, grown people to children, until everybody began to believe there must be two of him.
Suddenly he stopped, looked at his watch, and then waved his handkerchief. Instantly a clear-toned trumpet proclaimed the opening of the games, and a brass band rattled off a lively air, at the close of which ten boys in flannel shirts and polo caps walked out from the dressing-rooms and toed the mark for the hundred-yard dash. Mr. Lancewood took his station behind them, pistol in hand, while at the other end of the course two young men held a broad reel ribbon between them to indicate the goal.
"One, two, three! Are you ready? [Bang.] Go!" and off shot the ten as if from the pistol itself.
The spectators sprang to their feet in the excitement. But it only lasts an instant; for Charley Brown has distanced Jack Merks by a pace or two, and now comes panting back, with the ribbon streaming from his shoulders.
Then follows the sack race, in which Ed Primstone falls and rolls two steps for every one he attempts to walk, to the irrepressible mirth of all the small boys, and the consternation of his mother.
Next came the potato race, in which each boy was provided with a basket and a row of potatoes, the latter being placed about three feet apart, all the rows of course being of equal length. The task consisted in trying who could first transfer a row of potatoes from the ground to the basket.
But we have not time to further describe this nor the succeeding three-legged race, in which the right and left legs of two boys were tied together, and their arms placed around one another's necks, the object being to run faster than other pairs similarly fettered. We must hasten on to the grand feature of the programme, the bicycle race, the riders in which presently made their appearance on the track trundling their machines.
There were five entries for the contest—Frank Le Grand, Harry Clare, Dick Summers, Murray Hart, and Alec Barsbey. The latter is pale but determined-looking, and there is that in the ease with which he slides into his seat that causes a by-stander to remark, "That slim young fellow in the blue shirt doesn't make much show, but he has the look of both speed and endurance."