daring? I'm off. I'll drive that chariot out of breath."

Capt. MacVeagh got the job. Capt. MacVeagh won the first race. Clad in a
flapping toga, a ribbon round his forehead, the hero of the British army
went Berserker on the home stretch and, lashing his four ponies into a
panic, came gloriously down the last lap, two lengths ahead and
twenty-five marvelous coins of the realm to the good.

That night at the club Capt. MacVeagh stood treat. British wassail and
what not. The twenty-five dollars melted pleasantly and the captain fell
off in a happy doze as rosy fingered Aurora touched the city roof-tops.

But, alas, the wages of sin! For the captain was not so good when he
mounted his chariot the second night. A beehive buzzed in his head and
huge, globular disturbances seemed to fill the air. And, standing
waveringly on his feet as the giddy chariot bounced down the track, the
captain let forth a sudden yell and sailed off into space. The chariot
ponies and hero of the British army had gone crashing into the side lines.

* * * * *

"When they brought him to the hospital in the ambulance," explained the
captain's friend, "they had taken the toga off him, of course, and the old
boy was in his dress clothes. This kind o' knocked their eyes out, so what
do they do but give him the most expensive suite in the place and the
prettiest nurse and the star surgeon. And they mend and feed him up for
two weeks. We all called on him and brought him a few flowers. The lad was
surely in clover.

"The hospital authorities had nothing to go on but this dress suit as