ons who understand such
things, that they are both fit to bear the exertion demanded of them?"

"You can judge for yourself, Sir. Here is one of them."

He pointed toward the pavilion. At the same moment there rose a mighty
clapping of hands from the great throng of spectators. Fleetwood,
champion of the North, decorated in his pink colors, descended the
pavilion steps and walked into the arena.

Young, lithe, and elegant, with supple strength expressed in every
movement of his limbs, with a bright smile on his resolute young face,
the man of the north won the women's hearts at starting. The murmur
of eager talk rose among them on all sides. The men were
quieter--especially the men who understood the subject. It was a serious
question with these experts whether Fleetwood was not "a little too
fine." Superbly trained, it was admitted--but, possibly, a little
over-trained for a four-mile race.

The northern hero was followed into the inclosure by his friends and
backers, and by his trainer. This last carried a tin can in his hand.
"Cold water," the umpire explained. "If he gets exhausted, his trainer
will pick him up with a dash of it as he goes by."

A new burst of hand-clapping rattled all round the arena. Delamayn,
champion of the South, decorated in his yellow colors, presented himself
to the public view.

The immense hum of voices rose louder and louder as he walked into the
centre of the great green space. Surprise at the extraordinary contrast
between the two men was the prevalent emotion of the moment. Geoffrey
was more than a head taller than his antagonist, and broader in full
proportion. The women who had been charmed with the easy gait and
confident smile of Fleetwood, were all more or less painfully impressed
by the sullen strength of the southern man, as he passed before them
slowly, with his head down and his brows knit, deaf to the applause
showered on him, reckless of the eyes that looked at him; speaking to
nobody; concentrated in himself; biding his time. He held the men who
understood the subject breathless with interest. There it was! the
famous "staying power" that was to endure in the last terrible half-mile
of the race, when the nimble and jaunty Fleetwood was run off his legs.
Whispers had been spread abroad hinting at something which had gone
wrong with Delamayn in his training. And now that all eyes could judge
him, his appearance suggested criticism in some quarters. It was exactly
the o