“You know him?”
“He is one of my patients.”
“Who is he?”
“After the two runners he is the most important personage on the ground. He is the final authority—the umpire of the race.”
The person thus described was a middle-aged man, with a prematurely wrinkled face, with prematurely white hair and with something of a military look about him—brief in speech, and quick in manner.
“The path measures four hundred and forty yards round,” he said, when the surgeon had repeated Sir Patrick’s question to him. “In plainer words, and not to put you to your arithmetic once round it is a quarter of a mile. Each round is called a ‘Lap.’ The men must run sixteen Laps to finish the race. Not to put you to your arithmetic again, they must run four miles—the longest race of this kind which it is customary to attempt at Sports like these.”
“Professional pedestrians exceed that limit, do they not?”
“Considerably—on certain occasions.”
“Are they a long-lived race?”
“Far from it. They are exceptions when they live to be old men.”