“You mustn’t take it so hard, Gussie. Why worry about a laughably
simple job like distributing prizes at a school?”
“Laughably simple, eh? Do you realize I’ve been sweating for days and
haven’t been able to think of a thing to say yet, except that I won’t
detain them long. You bet I won’t detain them long. I’ve been timing my
speech, and it lasts five seconds. What the devil am I to say, Bertie?
What do you say when you’re distributing prizes?”
I considered. Once, at my private school, I had won a prize for
Scripture knowledge, so I suppose I ought to have been full of inside
stuff. But memory eluded me.
Then something emerged from the mists.
“You say the race is not always to the swift.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s a good gag. It generally gets a hand.”
“I mean, why isn’t it? Why isn’t the race to the swift?”
“Ah, there you have me. But the nibs say it isn’t.”
“But what does it mean?”
“I take it it’s supposed to console the chaps who haven’t won prizes.”
“What’s the good of that to me? I’m not worrying about them. It’s the
ones that have won prizes that I’m worrying about, the little blighters
who will come up on the platform. Suppose they make faces at me.”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know they won’t? It’s probably the first thing they’ll
think of. And even if they don’t--Bertie, shall I tell you something?”
“What?”
“I’ve a good mind to take that tip of yours and have a drink.”