lap she was up to him. As they passed
the pump, she was ahead. In the succeeding laps she kept a comfortable
distance in the lead, until the end of the third when she sprinted for
'home,' grabbed the towel and, as Jimmie came bounding up, wrapped him
in it, rubbed him down, fanned him with it, moistened his brow with
vinegar from the long bottle, tied the sweater around his neck by its
red sleeves and held the dripping sponge to his lips. Then she found
time for me.

[Illustration: CELIA ANNE SHUT HER EYES TIGHTLY AND FIRED THE RIFLE INTO
THE AIR.]

"Oh, father," she cried, "did you _ever_ see _any_body who could run as
fast as Jimmie? Don't you just know he'll win that race?"

"There's but one chance against it," said I. "And really, Mr. Debrett,
that boy can run. He's a little bit heavy maybe, but he holds himself
well together and keeps up a pretty good pace. I timed him and measured
up the distance roughly afterward. It was pretty good going for a little
chap. Cecelia Anne is so much smaller that we often forget what a little
fellow he is after all. But that baby--whew--I wish you'd seen her fly.
It wasn't running. She just blew over the ground and arrived at the pump
as cool as a cucumber although Jimmie was puffing like an automobile of
the vintage of 1890."

"You see," said Jimmie to me as he lay magnificently on the grass
waiting to grow cool while Cecelia still fanned him with the towel, "you
see it don't hurt her to pace me round the track."

"Apparently not," said I, and although he's my own boy and I know him
pretty well, I couldn't for the life of me decide whether he, as well as
Cecelia Anne, had really failed to grasp the fact that she beats him to
a standstill every morning. I suppose we'll know on the Fourth. If she
runs, then he does not know. But if he refuses to let her run; it will
be because he does know."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Mrs. Hawtry.

* * * * *

Cecelia Anne _was_ allowed to run. First, in a girl's race among the
giggling, amateurish, self-conscious girls whom she outdistanced by a
lap or two and, later, in the race for all winners, where she had to
compete with Charlie Anderson, the beau of the hotel, Len Fogarty, the
milkman's son, and her own incomparable Jimmie.

The master of ceremonies gave the signal and the event of the day was
on. First to collapse was Charlie Anderson. Jimmie was then in the lead
with Len Fogarty a close second,