hundred in Low Heath would have
been absolutely conclusive, failed to impress my mother in the least.
She attached no importance to "winning off Redwood" compared with a
boy's health, and obdurately protested that if she were Tempest's mother
she would not allow him to think of running.

It was only my agitated appeals to her not to interpose that prevented
her speaking to Dr England about the matter, and so knocking the race
on the head altogether.

I took it as a compliment to myself that the Sports had been put off a
fortnight in consequence of the fire. That warm event had so upset
everything and monopolised so much attention that Low Heath would not
have come up to scratch at all on the day originally fixed. And whereas
the new date permitted of my being present to assist--though, alas I not
to compete--in the day's proceedings, I felt specially satisfied with
the alteration.

I had naturally heard a good deal of Philosophical gossip during my
convalescence. On my last evening in hospital especially, there was
quite a symposium.

My mother, in an innocent moment, had remarked, "I should so like to
have one or two of your friends to tea, sonny, before I go home. The
doctor says it will not do you any harm--and we can have them in here,
as you are the only invalid in hospital."

"That'll be ten, with you and me," said I.

"Do you want quite so many?" asked she, beginning to get a little
concerned.

"Must have the lot or none," said I decisively. "We can cut out
Rackstraw and Walsh, if you like--they're paupers."

"Oh, Tommy!" said the dear, tender-hearted one, "if they are not as well
off as--"

"Oh, that's not it. They can shell out as well as anybody; only they
got on our club for nothing on condition of towing the boats, cleaning
up, and that sort of thing."

"At any rate, let us have them," said my mother.

"All serene. Will you write the invitations? I say, mother, do you
mind writing as well as you can? Our chaps are rather particular, you
know, and I wouldn't like them to snuff up at you."

My poor dear mother began, I think, to repent of her hospitable offer,
but decided to go through with it now.

So she got eight nice little sheets of scented invitation note, with
envelopes to match, and wrote,--

"Mrs Jones requests the pleasure of Mr Alfred James Remington
Trimble's company to tea in the Sanatorium parlour this evening at 6
p.m.;" and so on, in each case.

My suggestion to ad