"It's a free-for-all. Anybody can compete," somebody was saying as they
passed. "But they've got to be slower than Old Tilly!"

"Can't do it!" whispered Jot. "Old Tilly can sit still on his bike."

"I hope he'll see the race," Kent panted. "It would be mean if he
missed. Here's a good place--there they come. Look at 'em crawling
along like snails! There's one chap clear behind. Yes, sir, he's
standing still!"

Jot gave one look and uttered a shout:

"It's Old Tilly!"

"Jotham Eddy--no!"

"Look for yourself and see--ain't it?"

"Of course--no--yes, sir, it's Old Till, for a fact."

"And he's 'way behind--I told you there wasn't anybody slower'n Old
Tilly! He's beating as fast as anything."

"As slow as anything. Come on! Let's cheer him, Jot."

They caught off their caps and cheered wildly. Every-body else joined
in, catching at the name and laughing over it as a good joke.

"Hurrah--hurrah for Old Tilly!"