Andy Black stepped confidently forward amid a burst of applause.

“The champion Roly-Poly of the Pacific,” some one called.

“The Saluria’s Little Sunbeam,” suggested another.

Andy smiled blandly, and kissed his fingertips.  The signal sounded, and he bounded off, bouncing from one obstacle to another like a rubber ball.  It was only in the twenty-yard dash from the net fence to the canvas tunnel that he lost ground.

“Four minutes, two seconds,” announced the umpire as Andy scrambled out on all fours.

At that moment Percival would willingly have exchanged places with the grimiest stoker in the hold.  Was it possible that he had, of his own accord, placed himself in this absurd and undignified position for the sole purpose of defeating a common, commercial traveler who had dared to deflect the natural course of a certain damsel’s smiles!  He writhed under the ignominy of it.  What if he were defeated?  What if—­

The signal sounded, and instinctively he hurled himself forward.  As he scrambled over the upturned chairs he heard a sound that struck terror to his soul:  it was the unmistakable hiss of tearing linen.  The hastily made garments of G. Lung Fat had proved unequal to the strain put upon them.  Percival lost his head completely when he realized that his waistcoat was split up the back from hem to collar, and that he had become an object of the wildest hilarity.

He might have fled the scene then and there, leaving Andy to enjoy his laurels undisturbed, had he not caught sight of Bobby frantically motioning him to go on.  Setting his teeth grimly, he went down on all fours and scrambled under the table, then resolutely tackled that swaying, sagging network of ropes that barred his progress.  Again and again he got nearly to the top, only to have his foot go through the wide bars and leave him hanging there in the most awkward and ungainly position.  It seemed to him an eternity that he hung ignominiously, like a fly in a spider’s web, while the crowd went wild with merriment.

Then suddenly all his fighting blood rose, and forgetting the spectators, and even forgetting Bobby, he doggedly grappled with those yielding ropes until he got a foothold, swung himself over the top, cleared the entanglement below, and made a flying dash for the yawning mouth of canvas at the far end of the deck.  It was incredibly hot and suffocating inside, but he wriggled frantically forward, clawing and kicking like a crab.  At last a dim light ahead spurred him to one final gallant effort.

“Four minutes!” called the umpire as the Honorable Percival Hascombe emerged, blinking and breathless, and staggered to his feet.  His clothes were soiled and torn, his hair was on end, there was dust in his eyes, and dirt in his mouth.

The fickle audience went wild.  The dark horse had won, and public favor immediately swung in his direction.  But it was not the favor of the public that Percival sought; it was the homage of a certain rebellious maiden, who must be taught that he was the master of any situation in which he found himself.