But Forrester was not yet done with. This magnificent walker, in no way discouraged by his doughty foeman, stuck gamely to his colossal task and Travers, try as he would, could not shake him off. “He’s lifting! He’s lifting!” screamed the man with the cigar. “Pull him out—stop him!” “He’s not—you’re a liar!” I shouted back, in a fever of rage, because the friend of Forrester, of course, meant that Travers was lifting. And if you “lift” in a walking race, you are running and not walking and all is over. They had only two hundred yards to go and Travers was still in front, when an umpire, to my horror, approached Dicky. He had been watching Dicky’s legs with a microscopic scrutiny for some time and now he stopped the leader and told him that he was disqualified. I shouted “Shame! Shame!” with all my might, and so did several other men; but the man with the cigar, who evidently understood only too well the subtleties of lifting among sprint walkers, screamed shrilly with exaggerated joy and behaved like a silly fool in every possible way. Forrester, relieved of his formidable rival, took jolly good care not to lift himself. And as the next man in the race was nearly a hundred yards behind, he, of course, won comfortably. Travers behaved like the magnificent sportsman he was, and I felt just as proud of knowing him as if he’d actually won; for he did not whine and swear and bully the umpires or anything like that. He just took his coat from the bench where he had thrown it before the race, inquired of the timekeeper what Forrester had done it in, and presently walked into the dressing-room with the others, quite indifferent to the hearty cheers that greeted him and the victor. I went in while he dressed and he said the verdict, though hard, was just. “I knew he was going to do me when he came up again after I passed him,” explained Travers. “He’s a North London chap in a lawyer’s office. I’ve never walked against him before. I ought to have pushed him much earlier and tried to outwalk him for the mile. He’s got fine pace. Look at the time—14.22—and he wasn’t walking after I came off. I meet him again at Catford Bridge next month. He seems a very good sort.” Thus did this remarkable sportsman take his defeat. But he was, of course, cast down by it, for he had only been stopped twice before during the whole of his honourable and brilliant career on the cinder path.