fat pink-and-white youth on a polo pony!

At luncheon Andy's praises were passed from lip to lip. The affair
had assumed an international significance. A Scotchman, a German, a
Japanese, and an American were striving for first place. The captain's
patriotism ran so high that he offered to set up the handsomest dinner
the Astor Hotel in Shanghai could afford if Andy came out victorious.

In vain Percival sought to hold Bobby's attention. The tapers in her
eyes were lighted for Andy, and he was obliged to undergo the new and
intolerable sensation of sitting in a darkened niche and watching the
candles burn at an adjoining shrine.

The slightest hint of deflection in one upon whom he had bestowed his
favor maddened him. He had showered upon this ungrateful girl attentions
the very husks of which would have sustained several English girls he
knew through a lifetime of patient waiting. He recalled their unswerving
loyalty with a glow at his heart.

Ah, he thought, one must look to England for ideal womanhood. Where else
was to be found that beautiful deference, that blind reliance, that
unswerving loyalty--At the word "loyalty" a stabbing memory of Lady
Hortense punctured his eloquence.

During the afternoon he found it impossible to escape the games. The
potato and three-legged races brought the contestants to his side of the
deck, and his reading was constantly interrupted by an avalanche of
noisy spectators who rushed through the cross passages from one side of
the boat to the other, exhibiting a perfectly ridiculous amount of
excitement.

Andy, it seemed, had only one more entry to win before claiming the
day's championship.

"He'll get it!" Percival overheard the captain saying gleefully to Mrs.
Weston. "None of 'em are in it with America when it comes to sports."

Percival flicked the ashes from his cigar, and, carefully adjusting his
tie, rose, and made his way to the judges' table.

"How many more events are there?" he asked in a superior tone.

"One," was the answer.

"How many entries?"

"Two. Mr. Black and the Scotch gentleman."

"Make it three," said Percival, as if he were ordering cocktails.

In the confusion of preparing for the last and most elaborate feature of
the day, Percival's enlistment was not discovered. It was not until the
contestants ranged themselves in front of the judges' table that a buzz
of fresh interest and amazement swept the deck. First came the Scot,
lean, wiry, and deadl