' Now take your
places, ladies and gentlemen, for the grand parade is about to begin."
The programme opened with the one hundred yard flat race. For this race
there were four entries, Cahill from London, Fullerton from Woodstock,
La Belle from nowhere in particular, and Wilbur Freeman from Maplehill.
But Wilbur was nowhere to be seen. The secretary came breathless to the
platform.
"Where's Wilbur?" he asked his father.
"Wilbur? Surely he is in the crowd, or in the tent perhaps."
At the tent the secretary found his brother nursing a twisted ankle,
heart-sick with disappointment. Early in the day he had injured his foot
in an attempt to fasten a swing upon a tree. Every minute since that
time he had spent in rubbing and manipulating the injured member, but
all to no purpose. While the pain was not great, a race was out of the
question. The secretary was greatly disturbed and as nearly wrathful as
ever he allowed himself to become. He was set on his brother making a
good showing in this race; moreover, without Wilbur there would be no
competitor to uphold the honour of Maplehill in this contest and this
would deprive it of much of its interest.
"What the dickens were you climbing trees for?" he began impatiently,
but a glance at his young brother's pale and woe-stricken face changed
his wrath to pity.
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