She was off on the instant, with the boatswain, who suspected treachery, after her.

“You can run,” she panted, thoughtfully, as she came in second; “we’ll have another one presently.  You don’t know how good it is for you, Tucker.”

The boatswain grinned sourly and looked at her from the corner of his eye.  The next three miles passed like a horrible nightmare; his charge making a race for every milestone, in which the labouring boatswain, despite his want of practice, came in the winner.  The fourth ended disastrously, Chrissie limping the last ten yards, and seating herself with a very woebegone face on the stone itself.

“You did very well, miss,” said the boatswain, who thought he could afford to be generous.  “You needn’t be offended about it.”

“It’s my ankle,” said Chrissie with a little whimper.  “Oh!  I twisted it right round.”

The boatswain stood regarding her in silent consternation

“It’s no use looking like that,” said Chrissie sharply, “you great clumsy thing.  If you hadn’t have run so hard it wouldn’t have happened.  It’s all your fault.”

“If you don’t mind leaning on me a bit,” said Tucker, “we might get along.”

Chrissie took his arm petulantly, and they started on their return journey, at the rate of about four hours a mile, with little cries and gasps at every other yard.

“It’s no use,” said Chrissie as she relinquished his arm, and, limping to the side of the road, sat down.  The boatswain pricked up his ears hopefully at the sound of approaching wheels.

“What’s the matter with the young lady?” inquired a groom who was driving a little trap, as he pulled up and regarded with interest a grimace of extraordinary intensity on the young lady’s face.

“Broke her ankle, I think,” said the boatswain glibly.  “Which way are you going?”

“Well, I’m going to Barborough,” said the groom; “but my guvnor’s rather pertickler.”

“I’ll make it all right with you,” said the boatswain.

The groom hesitated a minute, and then made way for Chrissie as the boatswain assisted her to get up beside him; then Tucker, with a grin of satisfaction at getting a seat once more, clambered up behind, and they started.

“Have a rug, mate,” said the groom, handing the reins to Chrissie and passing it over; “put it round your knees and tuck the ends under you.”

“Ay, ay, mate,” said the boatswain as he obeyed the instructions.

“Are you sure you are quite comfortable?” said the groom affectionately.

“Quite,” said the other.

The groom said no more, but in a quiet business-like fashion placed his hands on the seaman’s broad back, and shot him out into the road.  Then he snatched up the reins and drove off at a gallop.

Without the faintest hope of winning, Mr. Tucker, who realised clearly, appearances notwithstanding, that he had fallen into a trap, rose after a hurried rest and started on his fifth race that morning.  The prize was only a second-rate groom with plated buttons, who was waving cheery farewells to him with a dingy top hat; but the boatswain would have sooner had it than a silver tea-service.