The Willoughby Captains | Page 3

much of a surprise as it has been a triumph, and everyone is full of
hope now that the result of the "mile" may be equally satisfactory. In
the midst of all the excitement and enthusiasm it suddenly occurs to the
business-like Master Cusack that he had better secure a good position
for the great race without delay, and accordingly he pilots his father out
of the crush, and makes for a spot near the winning-post, where the
crowd at the cords has a few gaps; and here, by a little unscrupulous
shoving, he contrives to wedge himself in, with his father close behind,
at about the very best spot on the course, with a full view of the last
two hundred yards, and only a few feet from the finish.
It is half an hour before the race is due, and, by way of beguiling the
time, Cusack shouts to one and another of his acquaintances opposite,
and introduces his father to the crowd generally. The course has not yet
been cleared, so there is plenty of variety as the stream of passers-by
drifts along. Among the last, looking about anxiously for a place to
stand and watch the big race, are Telson and Parson, arm-in- arm.
Captain Cusack hails them cheerily.
"Well, who won, my boys? who won?"
The dejected countenances of the two heroes is answer enough.
"Watkins won," says Parson, speaking in a subdued voice. "The fact is,
my shoe-lace came undone just when I was putting it on at the end."
"And the swindle is," puts in Telson, "that just as I was spurting for the
last twenty yards Watkins took my water. I could have fouled him, you
know, but I didn't care to."
"Fact is," says Parson, insinuating himself under the cords, greatly to
the indignation of some other small boys near, "it's a chowse letting
Watkins enter for the juniors. I'm certain he's not under thirteen--is he,
Telson?"
"Not a bit of him!" says Telson, who has also artfully squeezed himself

into the front rank hard by; "besides, he's a Limpet, and Limpets have
no right to run as juniors."
"What is a Limpet?" asks Captain Cusack of his son.
"I don't know what else you call him," says young Cusack, rather
surlily, for he is very wroth at the way Telson has sneaked himself into
a rather better position than his own; "he's--he's a Limpet, you know."
"Limpets," says a gentleman near, "are the boys in the middle school."
"Rather a peculiar name," suggests the captain.
"Yes; it means an inhabitant of Limbo, the Willoughby name for the
middle school, because the boys there are supposed to be too old to
have to fag, and too young to be allowed to have fags."
"Ha, ha!" laughs Captain Cusack, "a capital name;" and he and the
gentleman get up a conversation about their own school days which
beguiles the time till the bell sounds for the great race of the day.
The starting-point is a little below where our friends are standing, and
the race is just three times round the course and a few yards at the end
up to the winning-post. Only four runners are starting, three of whom
have already distinguished themselves in the hurdle-race. Wyndham,
the school captain, is that tall, handsome fellow with the red stripe in
front of his jersey, who occupies the inside "berth" on the starting- line.
Next to him is Ashley; also wearing the school stripe; and between
Ashley and the other schoolboy, Bloomfield, is Rawson, the dreaded
Londoner, a practised athlete, whose whiskered face contrasts strangely
with the smooth, youthful countenances of his competitors.
"Ashley's to cut out the running for Willoughby this time," says Telson,
"and he'll do it too; he's fresh."
So he is. At the signal to start he rushes off as if the race was a quarter
of a mile instead of a mile, and the Londoner, perplexed by his tactics,
starts hard also, intending to keep him in hand. Bloomfield and

Wyndham, one on each side of the track, began rather more easily, and
during the first lap allow themselves to drop twelve or fifteen yards
behind. The Londoner quickly takes in the situation, but evidently
doesn't quite know whether to keep up to Ashley or lie up like the
others. If he does the latter, the chances are the fresh man may get
ahead beyond catching, and possibly win the race; and if he does the
former--well, has he the wind to hold out when the other two begin to
"put it on"? He thinks he has, so he keeps close up to Ashley.
The cheers, of course, all round the field are tremendous, and nowhere
more exciting than where Telson and Parson are located. As the runners