Unusual keenness was being displayed everywhere. The seniors were deeply concerned in the issue of the Mile. Would Redwood, who had hitherto held his own easily, save his laurels this time? Would Tempest, with his damaged hand, be able to run his hardest? Would any dark horse, at the last moment, enter to divide the interest? And so on. Among the middle boys considerable excitement was afoot, especially in Selkirk's house, where it was reported a boy of fifteen and a half was going to beat the senior record in the Jump, and perhaps run the public school record very close. But the chief excitement was among us juniors. We had modestly set before ourselves the task of winning every event under fifteen for Sharpe's house, to say nothing of pulling the day boys over the chalk in the Tug of War, and generally bringing the Philosophers well before the public notice. The secret of our intention had been well-kept till within a week of the day. We had been taunted with shirking our sports, with being "mugs" and "crocks" and "cripples," with exercising the better part of valour, with being afraid of being laughed at, and so forth. But we heard all with a conscious wink, and went on with our practice round the corner. Then, a week from the day, we literally pelted the list with our names. Langrish put down for the High Jump, Cricket Ball, Broad Jump, and Hurdles. Warminster set down his name under Dicky Brown's for the Hundred Yards, and next to Griswold's for the Hurdles. Coxhead entered for the Cricket Ball against the crack thrower in Selkirk's, and Rackstraw and Walsh, noble pair of "paupers," put in for the Quarter- mile, which I was to have run against the fleet-footed Flitwick. Altogether it was a big order, and made the other houses look a little blue, as we hoped it would. The great day came at last--a perfect Sports day, with a light breeze blowing, the track like elastic, the takes-off clean and sharp, and the field crammed with visitors and friends. I had my work cut out for me that day. It would have been far less exertion to run the Quarter-mile. I was to be coat-minder, time-keeper, rubber-down, straight-tipper, clapper-on-the-back, and bottle-holder to the Conversation Club at large, a sort of mixture of parent, footman, and retriever dog, which, flattering as it undoubtedly was to my sense of my own importance, promised no little anxiety and exercise before the day was done. As I strolled down somewhat early, charged with the pleasing commission of "bagging nine seats in the middle of the front row of the stand and seeing no one collared them," I met Redwood, fresh as a daisy, just returning from a final inspection of the ground. "Hullo, youngster, you're not running, I hear. What a pity!" "It doesn't matter," said I. "Do you mind my not backing you for the Mile?" He laughed, and said he should have thought poorly of me if I had not backed my own man. "Is his hand all right now?" he asked.