The Valley of the Moon. Джек Лондон

trouble was over in an amazingly short time, for from the judges' stand beside the track the announcer was bellowing the start of the boys' foot-race; and Bert, disappointed, joined Billy and the two girls on the hillside looking down upon the track.

      There were boys' races and girls' races, races of young women and old women, of fat men and fat women, sack races and three-legged races, and the contestants strove around the small track through a Bedlam of cheering supporters. The tug-of-war was already forgotten, and good nature reigned again.

      Five young men toed the mark, crouching with fingertips to the ground and waiting the starter's revolver-shot. Three were in their stocking-feet, and the remaining two wore spiked running-shoes.

      “Young men's race,” Bert read from the program. “An' only one prize—twenty-five dollars. See the red-head with the spikes—the one next to the outside. San Francisco's set on him winning. He's their crack, an' there's a lot of bets up.”

      “Who's goin' to win?” Mary deferred to Billy's superior athletic knowledge.

      “How can I tell!” he answered. “I never saw any of 'em before. But they all look good to me. May the best one win, that's all.”

      The revolver was fired, and the five runners were off and away. Three were outdistanced at the start. Redhead led, with a black-haired young man at his shoulder, and it was plain that the race lay between these two. Halfway around, the black-haired one took the lead in a spurt that was intended to last to the finish. Ten feet he gained, nor could Red-head cut it down an inch.

      “The boy's a streak,” Billy commented. “He ain't tryin' his hardest, an' Red-head's just bustin' himself.”

      Still ten feet in the lead, the black-haired one breasted the tape in a hubbub of cheers. Yet yells of disapproval could be distinguished. Bert hugged himself with joy.

      “Mm-mm,” he gloated. “Ain't Frisco sore? Watch out for fireworks now. See! He's bein' challenged. The judges ain't payin' him the money. An' he's got a gang behind him. Oh! Oh! Oh! Ain't had so much fun since my old woman broke her leg!”

      “Why don't they pay him, Billy?” Saxon asked. “He won.”

      “The Frisco bunch is challengin' him for a professional,” Billy elucidated. “That's what they're all beefin' about. But it ain't right. They all ran for that money, so they're all professional.”

      The crowd surged and argued and roared in front of the judges' stand. The stand was a rickety, two-story affair, the second story open at the front, and here the judges could be seen debating as heatedly as the crowd beneath them.

      “There she starts!” Bert cried. “Oh, you rough-house!”

      The black-haired racer, backed by a dozen supporters, was climbing the outside stairs to the judges.

      “The purse-holder's his friend,” Billy said. “See, he's paid him, an' some of the judges is willin' an' some are beefin'. An' now that other gang's going up—they're Redhead's.” He turned to Saxon with a reassuring smile. “We're well out of it this time. There's goin' to be rough stuff down there in a minute.”

      “The judges are tryin' to make him give the money back,” Bert explained. “An' if he don't the other gang'll take it away from him. See! They're reachin' for it now.”

      High above his head, the winner held the roll of paper containing the twenty-five silver dollars. His gang, around him, was shouldering back those who tried to seize the money. No blows had been struck yet, but the struggle increased until the frail structure shook and swayed. From the crowd beneath the winner was variously addressed: “Give it back, you dog!” “Hang on to it, Tim!” “You won fair, Timmy!” “Give it back, you dirty robber!” Abuse unprintable as well as friendly advice was hurled at him.

      The struggle grew more violent. Tim's supporters strove to hold him off the floor so that his hand would still be above the grasping hands that shot up. Once, for an instant, his arm was jerked down. Again it went up. But evidently the paper had broken, and with a last desperate effort, before he went down, Tim flung the coin out in a silvery shower upon the heads of the crowd beneath. Then ensued a weary period of arguing and quarreling.

      “I wish they'd finish, so as we could get back to the dancin',” Mary complained. “This ain't no fun.”

      Slowly and painfully the judges' stand was cleared, and an announcer,

      stepping to the front of the stand, spread his arms appealing for

      silence. The angry clamor died down.

       “The judges have decided,” he shouted, “that this day of good

      fellowship an' brotherhood—”

      “Hear! Hear!” Many of the cooler heads applauded. “That's the stuff!” “No fightin'!” “No hard feelin's!”

      “An' therefore,” the announcer became audible again, “the judges have decided to put up another purse of twenty-five dollars an' run the race over again!”

      “An' Tim?” bellowed scores of throats. “What about Tim?” “He's been robbed!” “The judges is rotten!”

      Again the announcer stilled the tumult with his arm appeal.

      “The judges have decided, for the sake of good feelin', that Timothy McManus will also run. If he wins, the money's his.”

      “Now wouldn't that jar you?” Billy grumbled disgustedly. “If Tim's eligible now, he was eligible the first time. An' if he was eligible the first time, then the money was his.”

      “Red-head'll bust himself wide open this time,” Bert jubilated.

      “An' so will Tim,” Billy rejoined. “You can bet he's mad clean through, and he'll let out the links he was holdin' in last time.”

      Another quarter of an hour was spent in clearing the track of the excited crowd, and this time only Tim and Red-head toed the mark. The other three young men had abandoned the contest.

      The leap of Tim, at the report of the revolver, put him a clean yard in the lead.

      “I guess he's professional, all right, all right,” Billy remarked. “An' just look at him go!”

      Half-way around, Tim led by fifty feet, and, running swiftly, maintaining the same lead, he came down the homestretch an easy winner. When directly beneath the group on the hillside, the incredible and unthinkable happened. Standing close to the inside edge of the track was a dapper young man with a light switch cane. He was distinctly out of place in such a gathering, for upon him was no ear-mark of the working class. Afterward, Bert was of the opinion that he looked like a swell dancing master, while Billy called him “the dude.”

      So far as Timothy McManus was concerned, the dapper young man was destiny; for as Tim passed him, the young man, with utmost deliberation, thrust his cane between Tim's flying legs. Tim sailed through the air in a headlong pitch, struck spread-eagled on his face, and plowed along in a cloud of dust.

      There was an instant of vast and gasping silence. The young man, too, seemed petrified by the ghastliness of his deed. It took an appreciable interval of time for him, as well as for the onlookers, to realize what he had done. They recovered first, and from a thousand throats the wild Irish yell went up. Red-head won the race without a cheer. The storm center had shifted to the young man with the cane. After the yell, he had one moment of indecision; then he turned and darted up the track.

      “Go it, sport!” Bert cheered, waving his hat in the air. “You're the goods for me! Who'd a-thought it? Who'd a-thought it? Say!—wouldn't it, now? Just wouldn't it?”

      “Phew! He's a streak himself,” Billy admired. “But what did he do it for? He's no bricklayer.”

      Like a frightened rabbit, the mad roar at his heels, the young man tore up the track to an open space on the hillside, up which he clawed and disappeared among the trees. Behind him toiled a