“And thanking him kindly, I’ll stop!” laughed Kent, in high feather.  “Come on over there, Jot, and see ’em race.”  And the three young knights were presently in the midst of the gay crowd, as gay as anybody.

The afternoon was full of fun for them.  They made plenty of acquaintances among the other brown-faced farmer boys, and entered into the spirit of the occasion with the hearty zest of boys out holidaying.  They were a little careful about not being too free with their spending-money. “’Cause we’re out on a long run, you know,” Old Tilly said.  But what they did spend went for their share of the entertainment given so freely to them by the big Granger who had taken them in tow.  It was a day filled with a round of pleasure, as Jot had predicted.

The athletic contests on the primitive little race-track proved the greatest attraction of all.  There were bicycle races after the foot-racing and hammer-throwing and high jumping.  Jot longed to vault into his own wheel and whirl round the track dizzily, like the rest of them.  He and Kent stood together close to the turning-point.  They had somehow drifted away from Old Tilly.

A new race began, and up at the starting-place there seemed to be a good deal of hilarity.  The hearty laughs were tantalizing.

“What is it?  Why don’t they come on and give us fellows a chance to laugh, too?” exclaimed Jot, impatiently.

Kent was peering sharply between his hands.  He suddenly began to laugh.

“It’s a slow race!” he cried.  “They’re trying to see who can get behind!  Come on up further where we can see.  It’ll be great!”

“Come along, then—­hurry!” shouted Jot.

“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!”

“Hip, hip, ‘n’ a tiger for Old Til-ly!”

The time-keeper called time, and Old Tilly descended from his victorious wheel and bowed profoundly to his cheerers.  He walked away to join the other boys with the exaggerated air of a great victor, and the people shouted again.