and Cecelia Anne beside him. So they
went for a lap. Then Jimmie, missing perhaps the blue little figure of
his pacemaker, wavered a little, only a little, but enough to allow Len
Fogarty to forge past him. Len Fogarty! The blatant, hated Len Fogarty,
always shouting defiance from his father's milk-wagon! Then forward
sprang Cecelia Anne. Not for all the riches of the earth would she have
beaten Jimmie, but not for all the glory of heaven would she allow any
one else to beat him. And so by an easy spectacular ten seconds, she
outran Len Fogarty.

Then wild was the enthusiasm of the audience and black was the brow of
Len Fogarty. A chorus of: "Let a girl lick you," "Call yourself a
runner," "Come up to the house an' race me baby brother," has not a
soothing effect when added to the disappointment of being forever shut
off from the business end of rockets and Roman candles. These things
Cecelia Anne knew and so accepted, sadly and resignedly, the glare with
which Len turned away from her little attempts at explanations.

But she was not prepared, nothing in her short life could ever have
prepared her, to find the same expression on Jimmie's face when she
broke through a shower of congratulations and followed him up the road;
to expect praise and to meet _such_ a rebuff would have been sufficient
to make even stiffer laurels than Cecelia Anne's trail in the dust.

"Why Jimmie," she whimpered contrary to his most stringent rule. "Why
Jimmie what's the matter?"

"You're a sneak," said Jimmie darkly and vouchsafed no more. There was
indeed no more to say. It was the last word of opprobrium.

They pattered on in silence for a short but dusty distance, Cecelia Anne
struggling with the temptation to lie down and die; Jimmie upborne by
furious temper.

"Who taught you how to run?" he at last broke out. "Wasn't it me? Didn't
I give you lessons every morning in the old lot? And then didn't you go
and beat me when Len Fogarty, Charlie Anderson, Billy Van Derwater, and
all the other fellows were there?"

Cecelia Anne returned his angry gaze with her blue and loyal eyes.

"I didn't beat you 't all," she answered. "I didn't beat anybody but Len
Fogarty."

Her mentor studied her for a while and then a grin overspread his once
more placid features.

"I guess it'll be all right," he condescended. "Maybe you didn't mean it
the way it looked. But say, Cecelia Anne, if you're afraid of
fire-crackers what are you going to do abou