"Look out.

Black!" shout twenty voices.
All very well to say, "Look out!" Black is used up, and certainly cannot respond to this tremendous spurt.

Thirty yards from home the new boy is up to his man, and before the winning-post is reached he is a clear ten yards ahead.
"Bellows did it," said the big boy; "look at his chest"; and then for the first time I noticed where the secret of this hero's triumph lay.
But, horrors! the next race is Number 12, and Slipshaw and I scuttle off as hard as we can go, to get ready.
How miserable I felt then! I hated athletic sports, and detested "three-legged races." As we emerged from the tent, we and the other two couples, ambling along on our respective three legs, a shout of laughter greeted our appearance.

I, for one, didn't see anything to laugh at, just then.
"Adams," said Slipshaw, as we reached the starting-place, "take it easy, old man, and mind you don't go over." "All right," said I, feeling very much inclined to go over at that instant.

Then that awful starter began his little speech.
"Are you ready ?" he asked.
"Not at all," inwardly ejaculated I.
"Off!" he cried; and almost before I knew where I was, Slipshaw and I were hopping along on our three legs amid the cheers of the crowd.
"Steady!" said he, as I stepped out rather _too_ fast.
Alas! we were last.