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.