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
approciable 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."