There was no difficulty in finding the news.  It was printed in the largest type, and was followed by a personal statement of the facts, taken one way—­which was followed, in its turn, by another personal statement of the facts, taken in another way.  More particulars, and further personal statements, were promised in later editions.  The royal salute of British journalism thundered the announcement of Tinkler’s staleness before a people prostrate on the national betting book.

Divested of exaggeration, the facts were few enough and simple enough.  A famous Athletic Association of the North had challenged a famous Athletic Association of the South.  The usual “Sports” were to take place—­such as running, jumping, “putting” the hammer, throwing cricket-balls, and the like—­and the whole was to wind up with a Foot-Race of unexampled length and difficulty in the annals of human achievement between the two best men on either side.  “Tinkler” was the best man on the side of the South.  “Tinkler” was backed in innumerable betting-books to win.  And Tinkler’s lungs had suddenly given way under stress of training!  A prospect of witnessing a prodigious achievement in foot-racing, and (more important still) a prospect of winning and losing large sums of money, was suddenly withdrawn from the eyes of the British people.  The “South” could produce no second opponent worthy of the North out of its own associated resources.  Surveying the athletic world in general, but one man existed who might possibly replace “Tinkler”—­and it was doubtful, in the last degree, whether he would consent to come forward under the circumstances.  The name of that man—­Julius read it with horror—­was Geoffrey Delamayn.

Profound silence reigned in the coffee-room.  Julius laid down the newspaper, and looked about him.  The waiter was busy, in his corner, with a pencil and a betting-book.  The three gentlemen were busy, at the three tables, with pencils and betting-books.

“Try and persuade him!” said the waiter, piteously, as Delamayn’s brother rose to leave the room.

“Try and persuade him!” echoed the three gentlemen, as Delamayn’s brother opened the door and went out.

Julius called a cab and told the driver (busy with a pencil and a betting-book) to go to the Cock and Bottle, Putney.  The man brightened into a new being at the prospect.  No need to hurry him; he drove, unasked, at the top of his horse’s speed.

As the cab drew near to its destination the signs of a great national excitement appeared, and multiplied.  The lips of a people pronounced, with a grand unanimity, the name of “Tinkler.”  The heart of a people hung suspended (mostly in the public houses) on the chances for and against the possibility of replacing “Tinkler” by another man.  The scene in front of the inn was impressive in the highest degree.  Even the London blackguard stood awed and quiet in the presence of the national calamity.  Even the irrepressible man with the apron, who always