"What is it?" asked Julius.

"What is it?" repeated the waiter, in a hollow voice. "The most dreadful
thing that's happened in my time. It's all up, Sir, with the great
Foot-Race at Fulham. Tinkler has gone stale."

The three gentlemen dropped solemnly back into their three chairs, and
repeated the dreadful intelligence, in chorus--"Tinkler has gone stale."

A man who stands face to face with a great national disaster, and who
doesn't understand it, is a man who will do wisely to hold his tongue
and enlighten his mind without asking other people to help him. Julius
accepted the waiter's newspaper, and sat down to make (if possible) two
discoveries: First, as to whether "Tinkler" did, or did not, mean a man.
Second, as to what particular form of human affliction you implied when
you described that man as "gone stale."

There was no difficulty in finding the news. It was printed in the
largest type, and was followed by a personal statement of the facts,
taken one way--which was followed, in its turn, by another personal
statement of the facts, taken in another way. More particulars, and
further personal statements, were promised in later editions. The royal
salute of British journalism thundered the announcement of Tinkler's
staleness before a people prostrate on the national betting book.

Divested of exaggeration, the facts were few enough and simple enough.
A famous Athletic Association of the North had challenged a famous
Athletic Association of the South. The usual "Sports" were to take
place--such as running, jumping, "putting" the hammer, throwing