aving of his
chest. For one tense moment they lay and the crowd was silent, whilst
each man's heart was almost thumping itself out of place in his body,
stretched upon the rough cinder track.

Then a low murmur broke from the crowd as they saw young Paterson coming
round the track, almost staggering under the strain, but keenly intent
on finishing now that his two formidable opponents were lying helpless.
He had kept running during the last round merely to take the third
prize. Now here was his chance of the coveted Red Hose, and he sprinted
and tore along as fast as he was able, calling up every particle of
effort he could muster, and intent on getting past before the two men
could gather strength to rise.

"Come on, Rob!" roared Andrew Marshall, "get up an' feenish, my wee
cock! Paterson's comin' along, an' he'll win. Get up an' try an' feenish
it!"

Stirred by the warning, Robert tried to rise. He raised himself to his
knees, but the pain in his injured foot was too great, and he fell
forward on his face unconscious, and the race ended with Paterson as
winner. It was an ironical situation, and soon the crowd were over the
ropes, and the two opponents were carried to the dressing tent, where
restoratives were applied under which they soon came round.

It was a poor ending to such a fine exhibition. A terrible anger
smoldered in Robert's breast against the mine-owner's son for his
unconscious action, an action which Robert, blinded by anger at losing,
was now firmly convinced was deliberate, and he felt he would just like
to smash Rundell's face for it.

Robert went home to have his injured foot attended to. He was too
disgusted to feel any more interest in the games that day, and so he
remained in the house, nursing his foot for the rest of the day, which
passed as such days usually do. Everyone talked about his misfortune and
regretted in a casual way the accident which had deprived him of the
coveted honor.

It was in late June, and that night Peter Rundell, as he was returning
from the games after every event had been decided, overtook Mysie on her
way to Rundell House, after having spent the evening at her parents'
home.

"It's a lovely evening, Mysie," he said, as he walked along by her side.
"What did you think of the games to-day?"

"Oh, no' bad," replied Mysie, not knowing what else to say. "It was a
gran' day, an' kept up fine," she continued, alluding to the weather.

"Yes. Didn't I make a horrib