The Willoughby Captains | Page 2

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?"
"Oh, a couple of kids--not in our house," replies Master Cusack, by no means cordially. "Jolly cheek of them talking to you like that, though!"
"Not at all," says the captain. "I'd like to see their race, Harry."
But Harry has no notion of throwing his father away upon the "junior hundred yards," and as they are now in "The Big," in the midst of the festive assembly there congregated, he is easily able to shirk the question.
An important event is evidently just over. The company has crowded into the enclosure, and boys, ladies, gentlemen, masters are all mixed up in one great throng through which it is almost impossible for even so dexterous a tug as young Cusack to pilot his worthy relative.
The band is playing in the pavilion, distant cheers are audible in the direction of the tents, a shrill uproar is going on in the corner where the junior hundred yards is about to begin, and all around them is such a buzz of talking and laughing that Captain Cusack is fairly bewildered.
He would like to be allowed to pay his respects to the Doctor and Mrs Patrick, and to his boy's master, and would very much like to witness the exploits of those two redoubtable chums Telson and Parson; but he is not his own master, and has to do what he is told. Young Cusack is shouting every minute to acquaintances in the crowd that he has got his father here. But every one is so wedged up that the introductions chiefly consist of a friendly nodding and waving of the hand at the crowd indefinitely from the gallant father, who would not for the world be anything but gracious to his son's friends, but who cannot for the life of him tell which of the score of youthful faces darting sidelong glances in their direction is the particular one he is meant to be saluting. At last in the press they stumble upon one boy at close quarters, whom Cusack the younger captures forthwith.
"Ah, Pil, I was looking for you. Here's the--my father, I mean--R.N., you know."
"How are you, captain?" says the newcomer. He had heard Captain Cusack was coming over, and had mentally rehearsed several times what it seemed to him would be the most appropriate salutation under the circumstances.
The captain says he is very well, and likes the look of Mr "Pil" (whose real name is Pilbury), and looks forward to a little pleasant chat with his son's friend. But this hope is doomed to be a disappointment, for Pil is in a hurry.
"Just going to get the house tubs ready," he says; "I'll be back in time for the mile."
"Then is the hurdles over?"
"Rather!" exclaims Pil, in astonishment. "Why, where have you been? Of course you know who won?"
"No," says Cusack, eagerly--"who?"
"Why, Wyndham! You never saw such a race! At the fourth hurdle from home Wyndham, Bloomfield, Game, Tipper, and Rawson were the only ones left in. Game and Tipper muffed the jump, and it was left to the other three. Bloomfield had cut out grandly. He was a yard or two ahead, then Wyndham, and the London man lying out, ten yards behind. He had been going pretty easily, but he lammed it on for the next hurdle, and pulled up close. The three went over almost even, and then Bloomfield was out of it. My eye, Cusack! you should have seen the finish after that! The London fellow fancied he was going to win in a canter, but old Wyndham stuck to him like a leech, and after the last fence ran him clean down--the finest thing you ever saw--and won by a yard. Wasn't it prime? Ta, ta! I'm off now; see you again at the mile;" and off he goes.
The glorious victory of Willoughby at the hurdles has evidently been as 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