It would have been far less exertion to run the Quarter-mile.
I was to be coat-minder, time-keeper, rubber-down, straight-tipper, clapper-on-the-back, and bottle-holder to the Conversation Club at large, a sort of mixture of parent, footman, and retriever dog, which, flattering as it undoubtedly was to my sense of my own importance, promised no little anxiety and exercise before the day was done.
As I strolled down somewhat early, charged with the pleasing commission of "bagging nine seats in the middle of the front row of the stand and seeing no one collared them," I met Redwood, fresh as a daisy, just returning from a final inspection of the ground.
"Hullo, youngster, you're not running, I hear.

What a pity!" "It doesn't matter," said I.

"Do you mind my not backing you for the Mile ?" He laughed, and said he should have thought poorly of me if I had not backed my own man.
"Is his hand all right now ?" he asked.
"He says so," said I.

"It's worth six yards to you, though." "You think so, do you ?" said he.

"By the way, will you do a job for me?
My two young sisters awfully want to be on the ground, and they've got leave if some one will look after them.