"Jerome Edwards, he can run half a mile in five minutes any day, yes he can, sir," the village boys bragged if perchance a cousin from another town came a-visiting and endeavored to extol himself and his comrades beyond theirs.

In some curious fashion Jerome, after he had out-speeded all the other boys, furnished them with his own victories for a boast.
They seemed, in exulting over the glory of this boy of their village, to forget that the glory came only through their defeat.

It was national pride on a very small and childish scale.
Jerome, swift little runner that he was, ran that day as he had never run before.

The boys whom he met stood aside hastily, gaped down the road behind him to see another runner laboring far in the rear, and then, when none appeared, gaped after his flying heels.
"Wonder what he's a-runnin' that way fur ?" said one boy.
"Ain't nobody a-tryin' to ketch up with him, fur's I can see," said another.
"Mebbe his mother's took worse, an' he's a-runnin' fur the doctor," said a third, who was Henry Judd, a distant cousin of Jerome's.
The boys stood staring even when Jerome was quite out of sight.
Jerome had about three-quarters of a mile to run to Doctor Prescott's house.

He was almost there when he caught sight of a team coming.
"There's father, now," he thought, and stood still, breathing hard.
Although Jerome's scanty food made him a swift runner, it did not make him a strong one.
The team came rattling slowly on.