There was what the reporters call a "sensation" among the crowd. The idea of this little foreigner, a Chinaman, actually with a pigtail, and without running shorts, attempting a jump at which Hats had failed, seemed to them the best of jokes, and they lined up on each side, prepared to laugh, and pick up the little man when he fell, and give him an ironical cheer. Hattersley-Carr stood by one post, his hands on his hips, his lips wrinkled in a sneer. Errington and the Mole stood together near him, the former’s face shaded with annoyance, for it was bad enough to have to entertain a Chinaman at all, without the additional ridicule which a sorry failure at the jumping bar would entail. The expression on Burroughs’ countenance was simply one of sober amusement. A dead silence fell upon the crowd. Mr. Ting had halted, and was tucking up the long sleeves of his tunic, and putting on a pair of spectacles. He began to run, his feet twinkling over the grass. His pace quickened; within three yards of the bar he seemed to crouch almost to the ground; then up he flew, his pigtail flying out behind him, the eyes and mouths of the small boys opening wider with amazement. There was the bar, steady in its sockets; and there was Mr. Ting, standing erect on the other side, his features rippling with a Chinese smile. Then the cheers broke out. "Good old Chinaman!" "Well _done_, sir!" "Ripping old sport!" (Mr. Ting was thirty-five.) A dozen rushed forward to shake hands with him; a score flung their caps into the air; a hundred roared and yelled like Red Indians. Errington grinned at Hattersley-Carr; Burroughs stepped forward quietly with Mr. Ting’s boots; and Hattersley-Carr stood in the same attitude, with the same supercilious curl of the lip. The warning bell rang; there was a quarter of an hour for changing before tea, and the throng trooped off, some to the changing-rooms, the idle onlookers to talk over the Chinaman’s performance. Burroughs led Mr. Ting towards the house, Errington and Hattersley-Carr following together. "You _silly_ ass!" said Errington. "How much?" "He was my father’s comprador--confidential secretary, factotum, almost partner." "Well, he said servant: how was I to know your rotten Chinese ways?" "Anyhow, you shouldn’t be such a beastly snob." And at that Hattersley-Carr turned on his heel and strode alone out of the field, and out of this history. CHAPTER II ERRINGTON MAKES A FRIEND