The word was given. The urchins started. Paul, his little elbows
squared behind him and his eyes fixed vacantly in space, ran with
his soul in the toes that protruded through the ragged old boots. He
knew not who was in front or who was behind. It was the madness of
battle. He ran and ran, until somebody put his arms round him and
stopped him.

"Steady on, my boy-steady on!"

Paul looked round in a dazed way. "Have A' won th' race?"

"I'm afraid not, my lad."

With a great effort he screwed his mind to another question. "Wheer
did A' coom in?"

"About sixth, but you ran awfully well."

Sixth! He had come in sixth! Sky and grass and trees and white mass
of ladies (among whom was the goddess) and unconsiderable men and
boys became a shimmering blur. He seemed to stagger away, stagger
miles away, until, finding himself quite alone, he threw himself
down under a beech tree, and, after a few moments' vivid realization
of what had happened, sobbed out the agony of his little soul's
despair. Sixth! He had come in sixth! He had failed miserably in his
championship. How she must despise him--she who had sent him forth to
victory! And yet how 'had it been possible? How had it been possible
that other boys could beat him? He was he. An indomitable personage.
Some hideous injustice guided human affairs. Why shouldn't he have
won? He could not tell. But he had not won. She had sent him forth