



Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Google
Print archive.









AT START AND FINISH




BY THE SAME AUTHOR

APPLES OF ISTAKHAR




AT
START AND FINISH


William Lindsey


[Illustration]


Boston
Small, Maynard & Company
1899




_Copyright, 1896,_ by
COPELAND AND DAY

       *       *       *       *       *

_Copyright, 1899,_ by
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY




TO THE
ATHLETIC TEAMS OF OLD ENGLAND
AND NEW ENGLAND, OXFORD, CAMBRIDGE,
HARVARD, AND YALE, WHO
MET IN LONDON JULY 22, 1899, GOOD
WINNERS AND PLUCKY LOSERS,
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK




NOTE.


In the present volume I have drawn freely on my previous collection (now
out of print), "Cinder-path Tales," omitting some material, but adding
much more that is new.

I have also added headpieces, in which my suggestions have been very
cleverly carried out by the artist, W. B. Gilbert.

  W. L.




CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE
  OLD ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND                                          1
  MY FIRST, FOR MONEY                                                 36
  THE HOLLOW HAMMER                                                   62
  HIS NAME IS MUD                                                     91
  HOW KITTY QUEERED THE "MILE"                                       107
  ATHERTON'S LAST "HALF"                                             131
  THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE                                    153
  A VIRGINIA JUMPER                                                  176
  AND EVERY ONE A WINNER                                             213




[Illustration: Old England and New England]


It is something of an experience for an Englishman, after thirty years'
absence, to stand on the steps of "Morley's" and face the sunlight of
Trafalgar Square. He may not own a foot of English soil, he may have no
friend left to meet him, he may even have become a citizen of the Great
Republic, but he cannot look at the tall shaft on which the "little
sailor" stands without a breath of pride, a mist in his eye, and a lump
in his throat.

It was early afternoon of a warm July day. There was barely enough wind
to blow the spray of the fountains, and the water itself rose straight
in the soft air. I stood contentedly watching the endless procession of
busses, hansoms, and four-wheelers, with the occasional coster's cart,
and asked for nothing more. Long-eared "Neddy" dragging "Arry,"
"Arriet," and a load of gooseberries was a combination on which my eye
rested with peculiar fascination. No amateur "whip" in a red coat on a
bottle-green coach could handle the "ribbons" over four "choice uns"
with a finer air than "Arry" as he swung through the line and came
clicking up the street. I would rather see him pass than the Lord Mayor
in his chariot. I must have stood on the top step of "Morley's" for a
good half-hour, not caring even to smoke, so sweet was the smell of a
London street to me.

I was thinking, as a man must at such a time, of old days and old
friends,--not dismally, but with a certain sense of loss,--when a tall
gentleman came slowly up the steps and stopped immediately in front of
me. I moved aside, although there was plenty of room for him to pass;
but still he looked at me gravely, and at last held out a big brown hand
and said, as if we had parted only yesterday, "Well, Walter, old man,
how are you?" I was a bit in doubt at first. He was so tall that his
eyes were nearly on a level with my own, his figure erect and soldierly,
his face bronzed as if from long exposure to a tropic sun. Only when he
smiled did I know him, and then we gripped hands hard, our fingers