Ah, he thought, one must look to England for ideal womanhood.  Where else was to be found that beautiful deference, that blind reliance, that unswerving loyalty—­At the word “loyalty” a stabbing memory of Lady Hortense punctured his eloquence.

During the afternoon he found it impossible to escape the games.  The potato and three-legged races brought the contestants to his side of the deck, and his reading was constantly interrupted by an avalanche of noisy spectators who rushed through the cross passages from one side of the boat to the other, exhibiting a perfectly ridiculous amount of excitement.

Andy, it seemed, had only one more entry to win before claiming the day’s championship.

“He’ll get it!” Percival overheard the captain saying gleefully to Mrs. Weston.  “None of ’em are in it with America when it comes to sports.”

Percival flicked the ashes from his cigar, and, carefully adjusting his tie, rose, and made his way to the judges’ table.

“How many more events are there?” he asked in a superior tone.

“One,” was the answer.

“How many entries?”

“Two.  Mr. Black and the Scotch gentleman.”

“Make it three,” said Percival, as if he were ordering cocktails.

In the confusion of preparing for the last and most elaborate feature of the day, Percival’s enlistment was not discovered.  It was not until the contestants ranged themselves in front of the judges’ table that a buzz of fresh interest and amazement swept the deck.  First came the Scot, lean, wiry, and deadly determined; then came Andy, plump and pink, with his fair hair ruffled, and a laughing retort on his lips for every sally that was sent in his direction.  Last came the Honorable Percival, a distinguished figure in immaculate array, wearing upon his aristocratic features a look of contemptuous superiority.

“What are the rules of the game?” he inquired, looking into space.

“There’s just one rule,” called Captain Boynton from the background—­“Get there.”

“The American motto, I believe,” said Percival, quietly, and the crowd laughed.

The Scot was the first to start, and Percival watched anxiously to see the nature of the race he had entered.  He saw his adversary dash forward as the signal sounded, climb over a pile of upturned chairs, scramble under a table, scale a high net fence, then disappear around the deck, only to emerge later from the mouth of a funnel-shaped tunnel, through which his contortions had been followed by shrieks of merriment.

Percival realized too late what he had let himself in for.  Not for worlds would he have subjected himself to such buffoonery had he known.  It was not the sport of a gentleman; it was the play of a circus clown!  He watched with horrified disgust as the Scot’s grimy face and tousled head emerged from the canvas cavern.

“Four minutes and five seconds,” called the umpire.