place of vantage. Amid a lull in their clamour the crier recommenced. “And now, men of Hellas, another time hearken. The sixth contestant in the pentathlon, most honourable of the games held at the Isthmus, is Glaucon, son of Conon the Athenian; his grandfather—” a jangling shout drowned him. “The most beautiful man in Hellas!” “But an effeminate puppy!” “Of the noble house of Alcmæon!” “The family’s accursed!” “A great god helps him—even Eros.” “Ay—the fool married for mere love. He needs help. His father disinherited him.” “Peace, peace,” urged the crier; “I’ll tell all about him, as I have of the others. Know then, my masters, that he loved, and won in marriage, Hermione, daughter of Hermippus of Eleusis. Now Hermippus is Conon’s mortal enemy; therefore in great wrath Conon disinherited his son,—but now, consenting to forgive him if he wins the parsley crown in the pentathlon—” “A safe promise,” interrupted a Spartan in broadest Doric; “the pretty boy has no chance against Lycon, our Laconian giant.” “Boaster!” retorted an Athenian. “Did not Glaucon bend open a horseshoe yesterday?” “Our Mœrocles did that,” called a Mantinean; whereupon the crier, foregoing his long speech on Glaucon’s noble ancestry, began to urge the Athenians to show their confidence by their wagers. “How much is staked that Glaucon can beat Ctesias of Epidaurus?” “We don’t match our lion against mice!” roared the noisiest Athenian. “Or Amyntas of Thebes?” “Not Amyntas! Give us Lycon of Sparta.” “Lycon let it be,—how much is staked and by whom, that Glaucon of Athens, contending for the first time in the great games, defeats Lycon of Sparta, twice victor at Nemea, once at Delphi, and once at Olympia?” The second rush and outcry put the crier nearly at his wits’ end to record the wagers that pelted him, and which testified how much confidence the numerous Athenians had in their unproved champion. The brawl of voices drew newcomers from far and near. The chariot race had just ended in the adjoining hippodrome; and the idle crowd, intent on a new excitement, came surging up like waves. In such a whirlpool of tossing arms and shoving elbows, he who was small of stature and short of breath stood a scanty chance of getting close enough to the crier’s stand to have his wager recorded. Such, at least, was the fate of a gray but dignified little man, who struggled vainly—even with risk to his long linen chiton—to reach the front. “Ugh! ugh! Make way, good people,—Zeus confound you, brute of a Spartan, your big sandals crush my toes again! Can I never get near enough to place my two minæ on that Glaucon?” “Keep back, graybeard,” snapped the Spartan; “thank the god if you can hold your money and not lose it, when Glaucon’s neck is wrung to-morrow.” Whereupon he lifted his own voice with, “Thirty drachmæ to place on Lycon, Master Crier! So you have it—” “And two minæ on Glaucon,” piped the little man, peering up with bright, beady eyes; but the crier would never have heard him, save for a sudden ally. “Who wants to stake on Glaucon?” burst in a hearty young Athenian who had wagered already. “You, worthy sir? Then by Athena’s owls they shall hear you! Lend us your elbow, Democrates.” The latter request was to a second young Athenian close by. With his stalwart helpers thrusting at either side, the little man was soon close to the crier. “Two minæ?” quoth the latter, leaning, “two that Glaucon beats Lycon, and at even odds? But your name, sir—” The little man straightened...