“What is it?” repeated the waiter, in a hollow voice. “The most dreadful thing that’s happened in my time. It’s all up, Sir, with the great Foot-Race at Fulham. Tinkler has gone stale.” The three gentlemen dropped solemnly back into their three chairs, and repeated the dreadful intelligence, in chorus--“Tinkler has gone stale.” A man who stands face to face with a great national disaster, and who doesn’t understand it, is a man who will do wisely to hold his tongue and enlighten his mind without asking other people to help him. Julius accepted the waiter’s newspaper, and sat down to make (if possible) two discoveries: First, as to whether “Tinkler” did, or did not, mean a man. Second, as to what particular form of human affliction you implied when you described that man as “gone stale.” There was no difficulty in finding the news. It was printed in the largest type, and was followed by a personal statement of the facts, taken one way--which was followed, in its turn, by another personal statement of the facts, taken in another way. More particulars, and further personal statements, were promised in later editions. The royal salute of British journalism thundered the announcement of Tinkler’s staleness before a people prostrate on the national betting book. Divested of exaggeration, the facts were few enough and simple enough. A famous Athletic Association of the North had challenged a famous Athletic Association of the South. The usual “Sports” were to take place--such as running, jumping, “putting” the hammer, throwing cricket-balls, and the like--and the whole was to wind up with a Foot-Race of unexampled length and difficulty in the annals of human achievement between the two best men on either side. “Tinkler” was the best man on the side of the South. “Tinkler” was backed in innumerable betting-books to win. And Tinkler’s lungs had suddenly given way under stress of training! A prospect of witnessing a prodigious achievement in foot-racing, and (more important still) a prospect of winning and losing large sums of money, was suddenly withdrawn from the eyes of the British people. The “South” could produce no second opponent worthy of the North out of its own associated resources. Surveying the athletic world in general, but one man existed who might possibly replace “Tinkler”--and it was doubtful, in the last degree, whether he would consent to come forward under the circumstances. The name of that man--Julius read it with horror--was Geoffrey Delamayn. Profound silence reigned in the coffee-room. Julius laid down the newspaper, and looked about him. The waiter was busy, in his corner, with a pencil and a betting-book. The three gentlemen were busy, at the three tables, with pencils and betting-books. “Try and persuade him!” said the waiter, piteously, as Delamayn’s brother rose to leave the room. “Try and persuade him!” echoed the three gentlemen, as Delamayn’s brother opened the door and went out.