Among the racers who offered themselves, two particularly attracted the public attention. Wilmore, a small, thin, wiry Scotchman, with a broad chest and sharp eyes, was one of the favourites; the other, an Irishman named O’Kelly, a tall, supple fellow, balanced the chance with Wilmore, in the eyes of connoisseurs. Three to one was asked on him, and for myself partaking the general infatuation, I was going to risk a few dollars on him, when the Doctor said to me,— “Choose the little one; believe me, the tall one is no go.” “What do you say?” “I say,” replied the Doctor, “that the tall one is not genuine; he may have a certain amount of speed, but he has no bottom. The little one, on the contrary, is of pure Scotch race; look how straight his body is on his legs, and how broad and pliant his chest is; he is a man who will lead more than once in the race. Bet on him, I tell you; you won’t regret it.” I took the learned doctor’s advice, and bet on Wilmore; as to the other four, they were not even discussed. They drew for places; chance favoured the Irishman, who had the rope-side; the six runners were placed along the line, bounded by the posts, so that there was no unfair start to be feared. The commissioner gave the signal, and the departure was hailed by a loud hurrah. It was soon evident that Wilmore and O’Kelly were professional runners; without taking any notice of their rivals, who passed them breathless, they ran with their bodies thrown slightly forward, heads very erect, arms tightly pressed against their chests, and holding their fists firmly in front. In the second round O’Kelly and Wilmore were in a line, having distanced their exhausted competitors. They obviously verified the Doctor’s saying,— “It is not with the legs, but with the chest that one runs; ham-strings are good, but lungs are better.” At the last turning but one the spectators again cheered their favourites. Cries and hurrahs broke out on all sides. “The little one will win,” said Pitferge to me. “Look, he is not even panting, and his rival is breathless.” Wilmore indeed looked calm and pale, whilst O’Kelly was steaming like a damp hay-stack; he was “pumped out,” to use a sportsman’s slang expression, but both of them kept the same line. At last they passed the upper decks; the hatchway of the engine-rooms, the winning-post. “Hurrah! hurrah! for Wilmore,” cried some. “Hurrah! for O’Kelly,” chimed in others. “Wilmore has won.” “No, they are together.” The truth was Wilmore had won, but by hardly half a head so the Honourable Mac Carthy decided. However, the discussion continued, and even came to words. The partisans of the Irishman, and particularly Harry Drake, maintained that it was a “dead heat,” and that they ought to go again. But at this moment, urged by an irresistible impulse, Fabian went up to Harry Drake, and said to him in a cold tone,— “You are wrong, sir, the winner was the Scotch sailor.”